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

While passing through these many years of life, you inevitably run into some amazing people, either personally or vicariously. They are memorable, perhaps even being candidates for nomination into sainthood.

First, I will always remember agriculturist Norman Borlaug. His achievements in plant science and biology led to his being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize several decades ago. Because of his persistent and dedicated work with corn and wheat biology, millions of people now go to bed at night well-fed, globally. In the 1940s, he took on a challenge from the Ford Foundation, which offered to support research into plant biology, specifically aimed at improving the nutritional value and the productivity of wheat and corn plants. Now that achievement was also been duplicated globally in vital crops such as rice.

How did he do it? By recognizing he could double the speed of cross-breeding research by growing 2 crops per year in Mexico – one crop at low altitude, the other at higher elevations in Mexico’s mountain — and running cross-breeding experiments at both altitudes. Thus arose an ability to run breeding experiments twice as fast, soon touching off what came to be called “The Green Revolution.” His experimentation had allowed accelerated cross-breeding experiments, fostering greatly expanded experimental breeding and rebreeding efforts globally, leading to better (and more) foods to be grown annually.

I first met Norman Borlaug while I was working on news coverage in Mexico, specifically writing about the basis of the Green Revolution. And later, when he was visiting New England to accept an award at Tufts University, I was able to contact him and spend a whole day driving him around this area to see historic points of interest, such as the Old North Bridge in Concord.

And what did we discuss? His interest in restoring the ancient and huge production of native American chestnuts; not too long ago there were about 4 billion such trees gracing the hills and valleys of New England and elsewhere. That whole agricultural industry was quickly wiped out more than a century ago by a plant disease called Chestnut Blight, which arose in New York from chestnut logs imported from Belgium. Breeding experiments may yet bring them back – but don’t hold your breath.

Second, I have always honored – from afar – the stunning achievements of a short, energetic black man: Anglican Bishop Desmond Tutu. He was a central and persistent figure who played vital roles toward ending the blight of South Africa’s awful system of racial segregation (and exploitation) known as apartheid. Through apartheid, the original Dutch settlers (and others) kept a stranglehold on the aspirations and freedoms of the native black populations. Along with Nelson Mandela (who was jailed for many years), Tutu and others persisted, finally winning the battle of civil rights. That has changed South Africa dramatically.

The original Dutch colonists managed to control nearly everything for many decades, even rigidly controlling where people of color could visit, limiting education, travel and employment. Ironically, however, once Japanese merchants and travelers began arriving — doin’ business – the white authorities caved, but first by designating the Japanese as “honorary whites”.

And now, what’s most amazing, apartheid finally collapsed – without a bloody revolution. Thank goodness.

-Bob Cooke

The title of our Lenten study book, What Makes a Hero, plus Pastor Joel’s sermons on prophets and on serving, have turned my thoughts to some of the heroes I have known.

First on the list would be my paternal grandmother –- an immigrant from Sweden who raised five children in New York City at the turn of the 20th century. The family had little material resources, but what they had was shared with even less fortunate folks. Grandma was constantly bringing food and clothing to others and taking into her home those who needed shelter and loving care.

The next generation, my parents, carried on the tradition of hospitality and giving of whatever they could to others. I didn’t think of them as heroes at the time, but Dad’s factory swing shift during World War II took a heavy toll on his health. Mom’s careful management of ration books and finances fed and clothed us in what now seems a miracle. They reached out to draw in a number of foster children, one of whom they adopted. Many others enjoyed hospitality in our home through the years. We were also nourished spiritually at our little country church, and my parents acted on the teachings of the church. Dad served in the Connecticut Legislature in the early 50s — a really heroic task because the pay was so low that he had to work in a factory each morning before donning suit and tie to drive to Hartford for the afternoon sessions.

There have been other heroes in my life. One church lady, whom we called “Aunt Violet”, was always quietly there –- hands in dish water, smiling, serving, caring — never calling attention to herself. Through the years, and to this day, the quiet, selfless ones have been heroes to me. One of the most beloved was Dick Harding who truly epitomized service and care — quietly and firmly doing what he could for civil rights, gay rights, truly concerned for others. His words of greeting any of us were “There he/she is!!” That was so characteristic of Dick -– always removing the attention from himself to show that he cared for the other person.

That’s what makes a hero –- selfless concern for others. A hero is someone who is always with us –- either in memory or in spirit or even in the flesh — caring about us, guiding us, serving us. What a gift from God!!!

-Janet Johnson

After a hard day’s work in the yard, digging, planting, weeding, and raking, nothing feels as good as a warm shower with the water beating down, refreshing and invigorating. In much the same way, the lectionary readings for the first Sunday of Lent, the story of Noah and the baptism of Jesus, point to God’s use of water to restore and renew the human relationship with God.

In The Flood story in Genesis [Genesis 9:8-17; also referenced in 1 Peter 3:18-22], after the people have broken the Law, God makes a new covenant with Israel and symbolizes their new identity through the rainbow. In the Gospel of Mark, as Jesus comes out of the baptismal waters [Mark 1:9-15], the Spirit descends, and a voice announces his identity as the Son of God.

During Lent, this time of renewal, as we see the days lengthen, let us re-enliven our identity in Christ by washing away some of the old habits of thinking, feeling, and behaving that keep us from a deeper relationship with God [Psalm 25].

The author of Mark’s Gospel writes that after Jesus is baptized, he spends forty days in the desert discerning the nature of his ministry and battling temptations, just as we do. In his blog, “Stories from a Priestly Life,” a retired Episcopalian minister reflects, “All temptation is to forget who one is,” i.e. to forget one’s purpose, connectedness with all of creation, and true self.

In other words, we cave into the old desires for pleasure, power, and rescue from pain in order to protect our vulnerabilities, which are often our needs for love and security. By numbing our feelings, trying to make the world as we would have it, and waiting for someone to deliver us from the inevitabilities of life, we think we’ll never experience pain or loss and grief. Perhaps, we won’t suffer as much pain or loss, but in the process, we won’t experience the full depth of God’s love for us, either.

To follow the way of Jesus includes examining the ways in which we have been hurt and have hurt others, to understand all the perspectives and contexts that bear on those situations, and then to bring compassion to ourselves and to others. In doing so, we can wash away the pain of the past in order open our hearts to God’s love, to the love of others, to our connection with all of creation, and to the joy of the gift of life itself. Then we can feel, think, and act in accordance with our true selves, our identity in Christ.

-Karen Lubic

By September, realization hit hard; a COVID winter was coming. I started looking for additional resources to get me though and happened upon a NPR review of the book The Socrates Express: In Search of Life Lessons from Dead Philosophers, by Eric Weiner. It was time to revisit my college Philosophy 101 course to explore/understand big ticket items such as reality, knowledge, existence, love, morality, and faith. Fortunately, the author is more humorous and articulate than my philosophy Prof. Dr. Snooze.

Each of the fourteen chapters is devoted to a particular philosopher, including Rousseau, Confucius, Socrates, Weil, and Thoreau. Their perspectives help to examine ideas that can lead to more examined, attentive, generous lives. For example, philosopher Simone Weil believes that “only when we give someone our attention, fully and with no expectation of reward, are we engaged in the rarest and purest generosity”. Ultimately, another name for attention at its most intense and generous is love.

Attentiveness is not my strong suit, which I easily excuse by my need to get so much done all the time. My mindless, inattentive multitasking always escalates during mealtime when the news is on! We know how Jesus felt about multitasking when he reprimanded Martha, as follows:

³⁸As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. ³⁹She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. ⁴⁰But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”
⁴¹“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, ⁴²but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-41)

So what’s a busy person to do? Be attentive, make dinner, keep up with the news, recycle, do the wash, listen to your aged parent, children or spouse, and/or _____ (fill in the space)? Sorting through my personal dilemma, I turned to Ecclesiastes, chapter 3. Reminded that there is a time for everything under heaven, I realized: There is a time for attentiveness and a time to serve dinner.

Prayer: Help me to be more attentive to the people in my life and the strangers I will meet along the way.

-Moira Lataille

At first life was very difficult – not physically. My every need was met. Meals were delivered. Mail and medications were delivered. Laundry was done by housekeepers. (No housekeepers were permitted to enter our apartments, so the laundry was placed outside my door.)

Those amenities were helpful to my existence, but it was not living. No face-to-face human contact was allowed. Phone calls, in-house TV, and e-mails were the only possible interactions. My family encouraged me to purchase high-speed Internet to facilitate Zoom so that I could at least see faces of family and friends. (That installation required the presence of a real live human technician, and some plumbing problems brought a masked staff member – also a real live person – but most interactions were “virtual”. Zoom meetings were not ideal, but they were indeed a blessing!

Then, in early summer, we were allowed visitors (maximum of two) outdoors under a tent. I was so happy to have Pastor Joel come to talk, and pray, and serve communion that tears of joy dampened my mask (always masks and social distance). Visits from my daughter certainly were better than waving at her from my window on Mother’s Day. Those outdoor visits were less than ideal, but they were a great blessing!

By fall, we were allowed to keep medical appointments. My lab reports revealed an amazing loss of unneeded weight with consequent improved numbers in many areas. No question of a blessing there! We were also allowed to have fellow residents (maximum of three) visit our apartments. We can also meet properly vetted outside visitors in a special room with special air circulation. Those interactions – even if always masked – are wonderful blessings!

Now, in early 2021, we residents and staff at Newbury Court have been given “herd immunity”, and larger gatherings are being permitted in special areas. We still cannot have outside visitors in our apartments, and Zoom plays a large role in our programs, but I have much for which to be thankful. Continued friendships, spiritual nourishment (Sunday services, study groups, AND that marvelously inspiring Christmas pageant), and family interactions all are marvelous blessings – whether they are virtual or “in the flesh”.

Thanks be to God.

-Janet Johnson

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)

These words are powerful because life can throw us many difficult and scary situations that grip us with fear and insecurity. In times like this, we ask, “How can this be happening to me? Why? What am I going to do? How will I be able to handle this?” If we trust God’s presence with us, He gives us the courage to be strong.

When I think of courageous people, heroes come to mind. I consider heroes to be people with amazing amounts of courage or noble qualities; often times, they do or achieve outstanding things for other people. I believe that we all have an inner hero that is capable of performing tremendous good for others.

My 21-year old nephew, Ryan, is a hero. Many of you have been praying for Ryan since 2019 when he learned he had acute myeloid leukemia, a blood cancer rare for such a young man. After intense chemotherapy and enduring life-threatening infections, Ryan underwent a stem cell transplant in 2020. His cancer went into remission, but unfortunately Ryan recently relapsed.

His most recent battle has been quite complicated. Without going into too many details, Ryan almost lost his life, again, this time to a full-body sepsis infection that required multiple surgeries on his leg.

Ryan’s courage continues to amaze me; his unending courage is one of the reasons why I consider Ryan a hero, but there are others. Ryan has always been a faithful person. He’s been raised by faithful Christian parents. Ryan has built a relationship with Jesus by consistently attending church with his family, going to youth group, learning about His word, and praying daily. Most teenagers have trouble sharing their faith with their friends. It’s often something they like to keep quiet. Ryan, however, has always been upfront with his feelings, in his own quiet way. He lists his favorite Bible verses on his Instagram profile: Philippians 4:13, Jeremiah 29:11, and Isaiah 30:21.

Ryan isn’t a hero simply because he’s a faithful person but because his faith has touched others and introduced them to Jesus. They way Ryan has lived his life and how he’s approached the unbelievable obstacles put on his path are encouraging to the thousands of people who follow his story across the globe. They are learning to believe in the power of prayer, to understand what prayer can do and how it feels, and to notice who is at the source of prayer —- God.

As I was pondering who the heroes have been in my life, I was struck by the word “hero.” When you add an “n” to “hero,” you get the word “heron.” This makes perfect sense in my world because the great blue heron has been a symbol of faith and resilience to me. My dad was a sailor who fell in love with the Chesapeake Bay; the magnificent great blue heron soaring over the water gave him a sense of peace and grace. Most often, though, we see herons standing tall along the shorelines, completely still; they are masters of patience and stillness. After my dad died (at a young age of 57), every time I saw a heron I just knew that my dad was telling me that he was at peace with Jesus in heaven.

Over the two years since Ryan’s leukemia diagnosis, I’ve had ongoing dreams of a great blue heron swooping in on Ryan and blanketing his wings around Ryan to give him comfort. I think that this heron symbolizes God’s grace and that the wings are like Jesus’ arms embracing Ryan in love. So, for so many reasons, Ryan is my hero, but Jesus is my ultimate hero(n)!

Next time you see a great blue heron, think of the heroes in your life and ponder the ways you can bring goodness and grace to others.

Prayer: Dear Lord, We thank you for being with us in all that we do, for giving us the strength, courage, and steadfastness to live our lives in your image and to be heroes of Your word. Amen.

-Kristen Straub

Certain times of the year have different “looks”; at least they do inside my head.

Advent and Christmas? Red and green, sleigh bells and Advent wreaths, Santa Claus and pageants full of dancing angels. Shiny!

Thanksgiving? Earth tones, chilly mid-morning football, Norman Rockwell paintings of roast turkeys and extended families. (It’s not exactly that for everyone, but it’s what I grew up with.)

Lent? … … well, a whole lot of music in minor keys; suppers of soup and bread; lots of furrowed eyebrows all the way to Good Friday. And before the Good Friday service, when our choir has gathered to briefly prepare, there has been considerably less frivolity than usual.

A cynic might suggest that the mass-media and commercial-advertising establishments have stuff to sell during the Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons, so they’ve needed to come up with lots of ways to remind people to get excited and get out there and stimulate the local economy.

They haven’t really figured out how to market Lent, apart from Easter-candy displays in supermarkets, and giant anthropomorphized bunny rabbits that don’t truly have much to do with the Gospel according to Matthew or Mark.

Quick! Make a list of Christmas or Thanksgiving traditions. Stop when you get to a hundred.

Now make a list of Lenten traditions.

Umm. I, uh, don’t think I’m going to make it to a hundred …

Happily, the Lenten Devotional booklet has been one of those traditions for generations of Sudbury UMC folks. A collection of Lenten thoughts — paper for decades, and electronic for the last couple of years — which are written by members and friends of this congregation. A brief piece of writing for every day of Lent, meant to inspire our meditations as we traverse the distance between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday.

For the past couple of years, as I’ve taken on the role of “LentBlog” editor, our writings have been guided by Pastor Joel’s Lenten programming: the themes and topics that are the focus of adult-education study and Sunday-service elements throughout the forty-days-plus-six of Lent.

When you consider this year’s Lenten topic and theme, you will practically hear the skid-mark sound effect:

Heroes? Superheroes?

Sounds a little bouncy and triumphant, considering it’s (brief reminder) LENT and all.

It’s a little bit of going-out-on-a-limb. We’re utilizing a book by Matt Rawle, lead pastor at Asbury United Methodist Church in Bossier City, Louisiana and a fellow who has made a bit of a name for himself writing books that discuss faith through the lens of popular culture (not least of which have been Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge character and the Victor Hugo and Broadway-musical renderings of the Les Miserables story).

Rawle’s book is a six-part compare-and-contrast exercise: let’s look at American pop-culture superhero characters like Batman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, Iron Man, Captain America, and Superman, and examine how they carry out their hero duties … compared with how Jesus carried out his — his ministries and his sacrifice.

How in the world is Pastor Joel going to deal with this? What is this, a Methodist Cinematic Universe??

That’s what the next six Monday nights are for (the Zoom link for his adult-ed sessions is included in The Chronicle, our weekly newsletter). … Also, going this route was Pastor Joel’s idea. :)

AND … I invite you to visit this online space, every morning from here through Holy Week, and see how members of our congregation deal with their faith, in writing, through this and other lenses. We won’t necessarily have to talk about superheroes; we may not even talk about “regular” heroes; but we just might.

(If you read a couple of posts and get inspired to join our writing corps, you are more than welcome — the editor’s eMail address is <rhammerton@earthlink.net>. Again, members and friends of our congregation are the driving force of this project.)

So. Shall we begin?

“Up, up, and away …”

-Rob Hammerton

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1864)

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Interesting coincidence, here:

I just received a message. From myself.

Evidently, a year from now, I have (or at least someone has) discovered a glitch in the time/space continuum through which messages can be sent backwards in time.

Now, because I am a Star Trek fan, I understand very well the dangers of time travel. Go back in time, change a detail, suddenly your grandparents never met and there you are, or maybe there you aren’t. Guardian of Forever stuff. If you’re lucky, you bring a pair of whales back in time with you to re-populate the oceans and all is set right … but that’s pretty rare.

So it is with great trepidation that I relay the message I received from myself.

“You know what I miss about last Christmas?” it says, after getting the boilerplate “This message is intended only for entertainment purposes and should in no way be taken as an accurate view of the future” disclaimer out of the way.

“I miss not taking things for granted.

“During the pandemic last year, I chose to do all my Christmas shopping online, and it was all finished ten days before Thanksgiving — and it was all wrapped a whole week before Christmas. This year? Well, let’s just say: ’tis the afternoon before Christmas, and all through the mall parking lot, this line of cars ain’t moving, oh no it is not. Just like old times. Although I do still wear a mask in public spaces most of the time.

“Last year, I set up three ‘virtual open house’ events on Zoom between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Saw a whole lot of friends that I hadn’t seen in ages! Most of them, I’d clicked ‘like’ on one of their Facebook posts, but that was it; but we spent two or three hours re-connecting and catching up and just telling stupid jokes and giggling, just like old times. This year, I haven’t seen any of them. The holiday season moves so fast and is so full of stuff that it kinda rockets past and you don’t get much of a chance to spend a lot of quality time with people, and suddenly it’s Christmas Eve.

“This year, it’s been good to be able to do the Christmas Pageant in-person, mostly because my sister always puts on a clinic in ‘how to orchestrate a mob of children of all ages into a Pageant cast, in an effort that often resembles staging the Normandy invasion’ … but during last year’s Pageant-making, we got to see all the kids in costumes straight from the first Zoom rehearsal — and the final movie even had a blooper reel.

“This year, it’s true, we’ve been able to make music with live choir and instrumentalists again — Kevin and I are back to stressing out about getting all the Cantata and Christmas Eve notes and rhythms in place, and all the instrument parts written and distributed. Last year’s Zoom calls were fun, though — we got to hang out virtually with SUMC-music-alumni friends in DC and New Hampshire and Dorchester!, and lots of other places. I miss that.

“Yes, to say the least, last year’s holiday season was a mess. Our own inconveniences (and there were plenty — I had to consciously think about how to do so many things!) weren’t nearly on the level of all the people who fell ill, all the people we lost. So many people’s Christmas dinners were more somber.

“But here it is, Christmas Eve 2021, and, well, what have I learned?

“I’ve learned that it’s easier than I thought to fall back into taking things for granted.

“Must work on that. With any luck — with better luck — it won’t take another global pandemic, or some similar calamity, to help me work on that.”

Interesting future-gram.

So. Here are wishes for a Merry Christmas (where merriment is possible, since in plenty of places, it isn’t, currently) … an actively Merry Christmas.

-Rob Hammerton

[Editor’s Note: This was a ham-handed cautionary tale. No hams were harmed in the making of this story. And I don’t presume to know what my eighth-grade English teacher would have thought of it. But I think I’m through with taking stuff for granted, whenever all this is over. May the message that I really do send back in time to myself, next Christmas, be a little bit different.]

A poem which I discovered some time ago, which has become one of my favorites, is one that was written by Howard Thurman.

Thurman (1899-1981) was an American author, philosopher, theologian, educator, and civil rights leader. He was a mentor to civil rights leaders including Martin Luther King Jr. He was also dean of Marsh Chapel (Boston University) from 1953 to 1965.

The poem is called “The Work of Christmas”, and it’s about what our Christmas-related tasks and responsibilities are, after the Christmas festivities are over.

Since the poem is still under copyright, I’ll offer two online links to it.

One is so you can read it in its entirety. It’s a quick read.

The other link is so you can hear how one musician used it to write a beautiful piece of choir music (it’s performed in this video by a choral group from Brigham Young University-Idaho).

-(submitted anonymously)

I have always been deeply moved by the stark imagery of the Advent hymn “In the Bleak Mid-Winter”. The first verse paints such a forlorn time, place and mood of desolation and despair.

In the bleak mid-winter
  Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
  Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
  Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
  Long ago.

Written in 1872, Christina Rossetti’s poem is timeless –- and I believe particularly relevant today as the misery and sorrow created by this pandemic continues to unceasingly pile up on us like “snow on snow, snow on snow.” Believe it or not, this dreary hymn has long been one of my favorite carols. It elicits such a pensive response and truly awakens the spirit of advent in me. It creates such a feeling of need and a craving for something to break through “earth standing hard as iron … or water like stone.” But one of the incredibly wonderful things about advent is not the waiting –- but the knowledge that our waiting will end in the amazingly powerful triumph of Christmas.

Now that we have these incredible COVID vaccines being manufactured and distributed, I now look at the pandemic through the lens of Advent. The waiting is brutal –- especially here in New England, with no place to go in the bleak midwinter. But my waiting is buttressed by hope and faith that there will be a brilliant light at the end of the tunnel.

And this brings me to another of my absolute favorite Christmas hymns …

Break forth, O beauteous heavenly light,
And usher in the morning;
O shepherds, shrink not with afright,
But hear the angel’s warning.
This Child, now weak in infancy,
Our confidence and joy shall be,
The power of Satan breaking,
Our peace eternal making.

If you have not heard The Roches’ version of this lovely hymn, check them out (to me, it’s like the angels singing).

While I truly do love the season of Advent, a time of waiting and anticipation, if there were no Christmas, no beauteous heavenly light to break through the darkness of the bleak midwinter, the season and that dismal hymn would merely be grim reminders of life without Jesus.

Thank God that our waiting is not in vain!

-Brad Stayton

At Christmas
by Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959)

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season is here;
Then he’s thinking more of others than he’s thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.
He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it’s Christmas, man is bigger and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart.
All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he’s seeking is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling, and somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man, I think I’d wait
Till he’d fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
I’d not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of self,
On the long days and the dreary when he’s striving for himself.
I’d not take him when he’s sneering, when he’s scornful or depressed,
But I’d look for him at Christmas when he’s shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he’s oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that’s in him is the master of the good,
But at Christmas, kindness rules him and he puts himself aside,
And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide.
Oh, I don’t know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

-(submitted anonymously)

If I could invent a new tradition for Advent and Christmas, I would emphasize GRATITUDE.

It would begin at Thanksgiving and possibly include an Advent calendar which, instead of candy or things behind the windows, would have a one word of something (or someone) for whom to be thankful. The calendar would, of course, end with the Greatest Gift –- the Christ child. There also could be an addition: an Epiphany calendar with words that express the gifts made possible by the coming of Christ into the world (humility, compassion, healing, forgiveness, etc.). The daily words could be made into a booklet and reviewed throughout the coming year or perhaps saved to reuse during the next Advent.

Instead of a large number of wrapped gifts, I would encourage family and friends to exchange notes of appreciation for one another. Such affirmations become priceless treasures long after things have worn out or been broken. If written notes are too difficult, e-mails or phone calls (or Zoom sessions) could be welcome reminders of how much loved ones are cherished. Of course, the custom of giving donations in honor of someone would be part of my tradition, even if it is not a new idea. The important thing would be to tell the loved one that you are giving the donation because he or she IS the loved one.

The “new” Giving Tradition would involve all sorts of gatherings of people (post-vaccine, of course), but as simple as possible with potluck or cookies and cocoa. Gifts of food items could be brought and displayed before being given to food pantries. If the weather is bad, the “Giving Party” could be rescheduled.

Traditional and non-traditional music would be provided at the party and also at church services. Activities would center on what one could share with others. This is not really a new tradition. It’s what SUMC has been doing for years!

The important factor in my “new” tradition would be an emphasis on what one could bring or GIVE to others, thereby following the example of the Eastern Sages who came joyfully with gifts for the Christ child. The giving possibilities are endless and JOYFUL!

-Janet C. Johnson

In the blog writing space that I occupy when I’m not over here, editing the Lent (and now Advent) Devotions, a few years ago I made note of a particularly … well … notable Advent season.

For context: it was December 2013, and our musicians’ latest version of our annual Advent Cantata project was a presentation of eight anthems that I composed. During the previous summer, I had thought, “ya know, we’ve done a lot of Baroque music, and lots of other interesting stuff, from Renaissance to twentieth-century. But I wonder if we could do a Cantata full of more pop- and rock- and jazz- and gospel-inflected things?”

A modest little goal.

As I have said many times in many places, a musical arranger or composer can write all the notes s/he likes, and nowadays our computers will show us what it’ll basically sound like (basic notes and rhythms, at least) … but until a pack of actual humans get their collective mitts on it, you won’t hear music.

Happily, the notes and rhythms cooperated. Even more happily (if not unpredictably), our Sanctuary Choir and affiliated instrumentalists came through in the clutch, in spades.

Thus answering the writing-prompt question, “Has there ever been a time when someone else became a Christmas present for you?”

And so, after it was all over, I took to the blog and wrote a big ol’ thank-you note:

“…this morning was the final, clinching proof that humans will never ever be replaced in the game of making music – expressive music which features spontaneous decisions and which evokes actual emotions from audience and performers alike.

“For one thing, computers can’t smile and joke and look more and more relaxed the longer the early-morning warmup and run-through progresses. Humans can. This choir did. The styles covered by the musical material (jazz, pop, rock, gospel) were perhaps more conducive to the smiles and good humor and swaying and occasional belly laughs than would the music of, say, J.S. Bach. The Mass in B Minor may suggest more strongly to a group that gravity and dignity are absolutely called for. Let’s be honest: there’s a difference between a Baroque-era work that is in triple meter, and a 1940s-style slow swing tune, in spite of the fact that they both seem to have triplets in them.

“For another thing, computers don’t need conductors, so they’ll never experience ensemble members and conductors feeding off of each other’s energy and enthusiasm and, yes, moments of irreverence to produce a musical performance that is more than just the right notes.

“And when computers produce music that humans would consider challenging, audiences will quite rightly expect that all the notes will be correct, so long as the power doesn’t go out in the middle of the performance. There will be no suspense about this. When humans go after music that stretches them a bit, or in fact when humans present any music at all, it’s always some version of a tightrope act. The hundred, thousand, million decisions made by every individual person involved … are in fact rocket science, and then some! And computers could do what humans do … if there were enough programming time available. But humans make decisions “in the moment” that make each performance different (slightly or vastly) from any that had come before or will happen thereafter.

“Computers make lousy jazz musicians.

“I’ve written arrangements before, and heard them played and sung by many different ensembles at many different levels and in many different environments. I’ve written a few relatively small pieces: a couple for the high school band which I led for almost a decade, and a couple for the church choir that I’m thinking fondly of this evening. In all cases, it was exciting to hear that the ideas did work, that the pieces were coherent, and that the people seemed to like playing or singing them.

“For many reasons, this morning’s presentation was all of that, but more besides. In part, yes, it was the culmination of a lot of hard work by a lot of people, and also the addition of a few instrumentalists to our musical ensemble whose presence and performance added just that little spark of something that helped us ‘take it to the next level’ – and what a cliché that phrase has become, and yet it’s fairly accurate. But there was something else that coalesced.

“The first of the eight pieces stood alone, as our worship service’s Prelude. Lots of ethereal ‘ooh’-ing from the choir, providing backing for a pair of soprano soloists, and the effect during the heat of battle was positively hypnotic. We got a good start.

“Following a hymn, a scripture reading and the ‘children’s message’, the second through fifth selections comprised the block of service time during which the sermon would normally have happened. (Our senior pastor annually gives up his sermon time for some or all of our Advent Cantata presentation. For a lot of pastors this would be a really hard thing to do!) Following another hymn, the reading of congregational concerns and celebrations, movements six and seven made up the ‘offertory’ music slot; and after a closing hymn, the final movement served as Postlude.

“As has been chronicled in this space before, the third movement was a lazy swing thing that I wrote while unabashedly thinking of Raymond Chandler private eye novels, and this morning the choir seemed to not worry so much about the notes that made up the close-harmony, minor-sixth and flat-ninth Manhattan Transfer chords, but instead relaxed their hips and shoulders and Swung Out. If they’d had fedoras, they’d have tipped them rakishly to one side.

“And as good a time as I had, listening to the second and fourth movements even as I conducted them … and as much as the sixth, seventh and eighth items created great effects – and the Big Finish was indeed a big finish! …

“Oh, that fifth anthem.

“We got finished with that piece, which can be described stylistically as slow gospel, but that doesn’t really cover it … and I leaned over to my accompanist colleague and whispered, ‘we could stop now. In fact, I’m not sure how we follow that.’

“During Thursday night’s rehearsal, from somewhere outside my own head, I had found this stage direction for movement five: ‘bring the sound up from the soles of your shoes.’ There’s singing the notes, and then there’s singing the notes with depth. And I had the feeling that descriptions involving vocal anatomy or deep philosophical constructs would be way too scientific or way too ephemeral to be effective in a music rehearsal. So, as is often my wont, I tossed out a weird little phrase and hoped it would be just odd enough to work.

“Yeah, that one kinda worked on Thursday night.

“Add firmly controlled adrenaline, add a live congregation, add the momentum of the four prior anthems, stir and serve … and that one more than kinda worked this morning.

“Let’s just say that I want the recording of movement number five like very few tangible things I have wanted for quite some time. I want to find out whether I really heard and felt what I thought I heard and felt.

“You are perhaps familiar with the phrase that gets used by and about pro sports teams: ‘leave it all out there on the field’? As in, this is the moment of truth, and who wants to look back for the rest of their lives and wonder what better results would have come if we hadn’t held anything back?

“We left it all out there on the field.

“Particularly with that fifth anthem, yes … but also all morning long.

“Quite simply, it was a privilege and a joy to be associated with that choir this morning – regardless of whose music they were singing. All you had to do, to know that they’d held nothing back – aside from maybe listening to them do their thing – was to watch them.

“Oh, yes, that’s another thing that computers will never be able to do: finish a calculation, or an operation, or a function …

“… and smile that smile. The very small one that still manages to reach the eyes. The one that says: ‘had it all the way, and it was a kick.’

2013 was a very Merry Christmas.

Fun to look back and remember the two dozen or so Sudbury Methodists (and friends-of-) who were my little Christmas present, seven years ago.

There will be such Merry Christmases again, featuring packs of musically-inclined parishioners knocking things dead. There will.

May it be so.

-Rob Hammerton

Many of you know I spent more than a dozen years here at SUMC serving as a volunteer Sunny Hill Committee Chair/Director. (Sunny Hill is a preschool business of SUMC.) Those years were some of the most exciting and fun years of my life! It was never dull as I taught myself how to run a business and manage a large staff of teachers. The best part, in my mind, was being at the school a lot and observing the children, watching as they learned how to get along with each other and have fun doing whatever messy project their teachers had dreamed up for the day. No matter how tired I got, what kept me going was knowing that indirectly I could make a difference in the life of a child by helping to create an atmosphere that prepared them to do well when they started their public school life.

After I finished at Sunny Hill, life was a little “quiet” until my granddaughter, Cecelia, was born and I was blessed with being needed to help out afternoons while Kristin was away teaching and Kevin was giving music lessons. And then Ciaran came along and until he was in first grade, he too was a source of fun and excitement every afternoon.

So you might say it’s not surprising that one of my favorite Advent/Christmas hymns speaks about children. It’s not a joyous, loud Christmas carol, but it speaks to my heart, and perhaps you will find it gives meaning to your Advent, too. It is “Star-Child”, found in The Faith We Sing, words by Shirley Erena Murray (1931-2020), based on Matthew 2: 1-12, with music by Carlton R. Young.

Star-Child, earth-Child, go-between of God,
Love Child, Christ Child, heaven’s lightning rod,
This year, this year, let the day arrive
When Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!

Street child, beat child, no place left to go,
Hurt child, used child, no one wants to know,
This year, this year, let the day arrive
When Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!

Grown child, old child, memory full of years,
Sad child, lost child, story told in tears,
This year, this year, let the day arrive
When Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!

Spared child, spoiled child, having, wanting more,
Wise child, faith child, knowing joy in store,
This year, this year, let the day arrive
When Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!

Hope-for-peace Child, God’s stupendous sign,
Down-to-earth Child, Star of stars that shine,
This year, this year, let the day arrive
When Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!

-Nancy Hammerton

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“Star-Child” lyrics by Shirley Erena Murray (1931-2020)
Copyright © 1994 by Hope Publishing Company, Carol Stream, IL 60188. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Reprinted under License No. RP121420-1

One of the most memorable activities each year for the youth group is the annual lock-in/Christmas party. Like many other things in our lives over the last year, this had to be cancelled due to the pandemic. Despite being able to make the most of things by replacing the lock-in with Cardboard Box City earlier this year, the lack of the event this December is a reminder of how dark a year this has been for many (if not most).

Of course, one might also say that Cardboard Box City was not merely a replacement, but an improvement. Not only did we spend the evening in devotion and fellowship, playing games, and eating s’mores, we also added an outreach project to our calendar – one that raised over $1,300 for Metrowest Family Promise!

In the darkness, a light shines.

On Sunday afternoon, the youth group will be giving a free Bible and Chrismon (and, y’know, some candy) to any family that drives through the parking lot. This event came together because COVID prevented us from holding our annual in-worship presentation of new Bibles to our third grade students. SUMC’s Christian Education Commission, Church Growth Commission, music leaders and youth group have come together to extend an invitation to our neighbors despite (and abiding by) social gathering restrictions.

In the darkness, a light shines.

Isn’t that what Christmas is about to begin with? In our darkness, Christ is our light; a light that shines through the darkness and cannot be overcome. Throughout the rest of Advent and Christmas, remember this, and be thankful. We are in an extended season of darkness, but in the darkness, the light of Christ shines, and we are called to be that light because we are the body of Christ.

We are the Church.

Keep the Faith.

-Zack Moser

I made repeated visits to a hospital a while back. I was a patient in a neurology unit. To combat worry, frustration, loneliness, and restlessness, I walked the halls of my floor. Most of the time I was the only patient to do so, at least alone. Often my sister and brother patients were victims of severe head trauma, brain cancer, nerve damage, or had just had had brain or spinal cord surgery of some sort. They usually were bedridden.

One day a young man appeared in the hospital halls. I don’t think he was over thirty. One side of his head was completely shaved. He had a semicircular scar visible from across the hall and held together with monstrous surgical staples. Even with a four-point walker he could barely walk ten feet in front of the nurse’s station within ten minutes. He was determined, though. An attendant had been hired to be with him twenty-four hours a day because he wanted to be up, out of his room, doing something to get better, and was not going to be denied. He was aphasic. His eyes were open a bit wider than yours or mine and always riveted to the floor a few feet in front of him.

Six weeks later he had grown a beard and had progressed to walking fast around the halls of the hospital floor. I learned to stay way on the right if I was in the hall and saw him coming toward me. He didn’t have the greatest spatial sense yet. Often his attendant steered him around corners. Otherwise he couldn’t have made the turn before encountering a wall. He and I broke one of the cardinal unwritten rules of hospital patients: don’t make eye contact with another patient when you meet them in the hall. Every once in a while this young man would catch my eye and give me a high five as he cruised on by me. (A brain injury patient has to have good balance to high-five someone while walking.)

There are many stories like this. They are testament to the plasticity of the brain. A lot can improve quickly. But that last small percentage of recovery takes a very long time to come about, possibly a lifetime, maybe never. And it requires a lot of work by many people to make it happen. That work is done everyday, in and out of hospitals, including holidays.

Friends and relatives often were in patients’ rooms. It was not unusual for the patient to be comatose, the friend or relative reading a book or watching TV, alone. As December progressed, I thought more often that these bystanders would be spending Christmas — and many more holidays — in the hospital.

Driving home, these patients’ families returning from the hospital pass cars with a Christmas tree on the roof and houses with elaborate and lavish holiday lights outside. Their own homes are dark, or maybe just a TV lights up the family room as an older child watches and waits for her parents to get back from visiting a hospitalized sibling or elderly relative.

We would do well to remember what Christmas is like for patients’ families. They want their spirits to be in the stars as they stare up into the clear, dark, silent, winter night. Instead, they are earthbound. Any ethereal or warm thoughts are overcome by the nagging realization that their feet and hands are cold from standing in the snow looking at what stars they can see away from the glare of the streetlight in front of their house.

On Christmas Day, if you find out you need batteries for a present you gave or received or if your guests drank all the milk in the house, you will go to a convenience store and interact with other people who have to work on this day. In pre-COVID times some restaurants, zoos, Broadway shows, and museums were also open. And they required workers to cook and serve you food, sell you tickets, sing and dance for you, open up, clean up, and shut down.

We would do well to remember what Christmas is like for them so that Christmas is as it is for us.

-David Downing

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[Editor’s Note: Mr. Downing is a friend of the Hammerton and Murphy families; he was a writing instructor at the Charles River Creative Arts Program and thus a colleague of Kevin, Kristin and Rob.]

I am currently in the middle of my twelfth year of organizing and rehearsing the Christmas Pageant at Sudbury United Methodist Church. I fell into directing the pageant when my kids were seven and three.

When I began, I drew on my experience teaching elementary school students by over-preparing and giving us several rehearsals so we were not rushed. I recalled my time at the Charles River Creative Arts Program, which helped me know that it would be wise to write a script that was both traditional and hopefully a bit lighthearted, for the number of kids who signed up for Pageant and their wishes for lines and solos. I left space for children who decided to join a week or two into the rehearsing.

I also drew heavily from my experience in the UMass Marching Band, with its charismatic director, George N. Parks. Mr. Parks’ “Starred Thoughts” — which helped his band members to keep their eye on all that is good in people, while at the same time helping them to prepare to make large things happen with large numbers of people — are legendary, and are found with a simple Google search of the phrase and his name. I “moved in the direction I was thinking,” I “faked it till I could make it,” I “surrounded myself with good people” to help me make things work, and I remembered that “space is weakness” and made sure that the children of the church were close together when I spoke with them and gave directions.

I also drew heavily on my faith and hoped that God would be present with us through the rehearsals. I had been in a few Pageants as a kid, and remembered that things should be fun and also get the Big Point across; that perfection was sometimes found in mistakes; and that it would be A-OK to write cue cards and index cards with lines for children who needed that help.

What I found was that this Pageant rehearsing made ME remember the Big Point of Christmas, and was something that I looked forward to doing. I enjoyed connecting with the children of the church; that was not a surprise to me, but what was a surprise was that each year, I met some of the newer and younger families of the church during the Pageant, while also collaborating with long-time members of the church, which further cemented my friendships and connections to church members. It was a pleasant social experience for me, and — I would like to think — for everyone.

As my children have grown up, the Pageant has defined our family’s Saturday mornings, starting five weeks before Christmas Eve. My son, Ciaran, started in his role as the self-proclaimed “Dog #4” in the menagerie of preschool animals (we are still not sure why he decided to call himself Dog #4, but the name has stuck, nonetheless), and he moved through many roles. My daughter, Cecelia, has played almost every role in the Pageant over the years; and now, for several years, I have happily handed over to her all responsibility for the Angel Dance. I have been equally delighted to watch as the youngest members of the church mooed and baahhed, then twirled as a dancing Angel or said “Yikes!” together as Shepherds, moved into a small speaking role, and became the Angel Gabriel, Joseph, or Mary, if they were adventurous.

There have been so many lovely moments during the rehearsals. I have watched older kids assist and teach younger kids. I watched with amusement as a whole family of brothers whom I had cast as the Wise Men tipped over all at once while kneeling before the manger in our dress rehearsal — causing them to laugh the loudest! I have enjoyed watching many children sing a solo for the first time and get satisfaction from their safe risk for God. I have loved our yearly “inside jokes” over the years — reminding kids not to have any heavenly “peas”, but instead to have heavenly “peace”; the “traditional telling” of some of the musical stories behind the hymns; and the teachable moments when kids wonder about the word “reign” and the confounding phrase “lo! above the earth.” I have thanked our God for the many families who have volunteered lots of their time to help build and then dismantle the stable quickly, who have sorted and passed out costumes, who have coordinated and served the traditional bagel-grapes-clementines meal for our final “cast party” after the dress rehearsal on the fifth week.

After about three years of directing the Pageant, I began a file that tracked the different music we used each year: the carols sung by the whole group as well as the piece of music to which the angels danced, and the solo pieces that were played and sung. I realized that it was important to me to have a few of the most familiar carols that really needed to be included every year for the story to be told well through music (and to appease the requests of children who asked for one or two carols by name), and then to cycle through the huge number of carols and Christmas music — so that if a child joined the Pageant as a three-year-old and stayed on through high school as someone who choreographed the angel dance or as a line helper, that child-turned-teen would have heard the greatest variety of sacred Christmas music possible, and could sing the lyrics to much of it. I have tried also to include a diversity of music from all over the globe: African Christmas music; music from the Caribbean, music usually heard in Los Posadas, for example; and also Christmas music from African-American traditions. Once, I included the multi-multi-multi-verse classic, “Children, Go Where I Send Thee” — it took more than eight minutes to sing, but was such a “fan favorite” that kids were still requesting that we sing it during regular our Sunday morning music well into July of that year.

Because there are many children who are in the Pageant year after year — and because I change the script, but keep the basic “plan” the same — I became aware, after a few years, that I didn’t have to give directions about when Mary and Joseph left the sanctuary by the organ-side door and went around to the O’Reilly Room to pick up the wooden rolling donkey, and then enter the Sanctuary to begin their “trip to Bethlehem”. Nor would I have to help three Shepherds to know when to exit the same door and change into their Wise Man Christmas tree skirts-turned costumes and grab their “gifts”. Also, the older kids in the cast knew when to run from the altar steps through the O’Reilly side door and back to the Chancel through the organ-side door and down to the steps to symbolize the trip to Bethlehem to “find the baby”. It would just happen all around me. I realized that this was sort of a metaphor for being a church-goer. The familiar rhythm of week-after-week church attendance helps one to know the Big Plan and the Big Point.

So it was with a little trepidation that I sat down earlier this fall and planned out a virtual Pageant Movie. I wondered: would things feel anything like that familiar Pageant Saturday? Would it be an experiment I would be happy to have conducted?

I wasn’t sure whether families would want another Zoomy time, but lo! — we have slightly more kids participating this year than were in our in-person Pageant last year, including a new face or two, and a plethora of adorable, toothy smiles signing onto the Zoom link. A few weeks ago, Cecelia and I ran in and out of the Pageant costume closet at church with our labeled bags, selecting costumes we guessed would fit children we knew had grown since we had last seen them in 3D. Cecelia traversed many towns to leave the merry bags of costumes and a few of our traditional props. What a strange reversal it was to costume the kids before the first week instead of before the last week, but as soon as the dancing Angels first showed up in their rectangles sporting sparkly halos, wings, and tunics, I was sold!

We have made lots of progress filming our little Pageant Movie. It has been a treat to see the dancing angels; to hear kids from preschool to high school practicing their lines — some of which sounded curiously like Linus Van Pelt’s famous Charlie Brown Christmas soliloquy; and to hear Kevin leading a rousing rehearsal of public domain carols. A Shepherd’s crook blooper or two, “Mary” looking lovingly at the draped plastic doll, some inspired ideas from the kids, a sweet boy saying he couldn’t be as mean as Herod because he couldn’t ever hurt a baby, and a little snowfall as a backdrop … have made me appreciate the season even more. Kevin and Rob will stir and serve this week’s recordings into what will be our final Pageant Movie. Another change will be Rob’s huge role in using Fancy Tools to cut together the recordings from Zoom into our movie.

We would love YOU — the church’s congregation — to join the church’s children in proclaiming the Savior’s birth, with a little help from Zoom. We are just about done with filming and cutting together the Pageant into a movie that is both traditional and a bit lighthearted, and one that offers new and interesting possibilities that are not possible in a live in-person Pageant (did you say that the Angel Gabriel can … fly?) … while acknowledging that things do feel different.

What has not changed is the kids’ enthusiasm for telling the story, and for being part of the group — and we have probably laughed and smiled even more than usual. What has also not changed is the experience of God’s presence with us as we have worked together virtually.

Please join us for one of two Pageant watch parties — one at 11 AM on Dec. 24 (Christmas Eve morning) and one at 11 AM on Dec. 26.

Please look for a link in the Chronicle to tell us what your email and “Zoom name” will be (so our “host” can know who we are letting into the Zoom meeting), and to get the Zoom link for the watch party.

We look forward to sharing the story with you on Christmas Eve and during Christmastide. Yes, the pandemic has served up a lot of heartache about things that cannot be the way we are used to, but we are keeping on keeping on, with God’s grace — telling the story …

-Kristin Murphy

Sharing Christmas with someone who didn’t have anyone else with whom to share it was part of our family tradition – especially during the 1960s, when we were part of Yale’s International Hosting program, and during the ’70s, when we hosted Rotary students each year. We lived in Seymour, CT during the entire decade of civil rights and anti-war ’60s. Sometimes our Christmas guests included our own seminary student interns who were studying at Yale and could not return home for the holidays. More often we hosted students from other countries. A family from England, a Ph.D candidate from Sweden, a Korean couple – these were among the Yale students who came often to our home – including at Christmas.

Several times, we hooked up with a program that provided an east coast experience to students from midwestern colleges during their Christmas break. The students were bused east to enjoy sightseeing and a family Christmas. One year, Ali, a Muslim from Cameroon, captivated us with his charming accent, his willingness to play board games with our young children, and his admission that he wasn’t supposed to eat bacon, but “it sure tasted good.” Another year, we hosted a devout Catholic African who wanted to attend Mass on Christmas Day. My preacher husband (having conducted our services on Christmas Eve) escorted our guest to the local Roman Catholic church. Because they were late, the only available seats were in the front – so the Methodist minister and his dark skinned friend were highly visible to the lily-white congregation (the whole town was lily-white). There were no repercussions (at least not that day).

Another astounding interaction with African guests occurred during the mid ’70s, when Nigerian twins landed at JFK airport at 5 PM on Christmas Eve because they had missed their flight the previous day. They had come to study in the Midwest and had been befriended by our son-in-law, John, during his short-term missionary work in Nigeria. Neither young man had ever been out of his village. It was impossible for us to get to JFK Airport on Christmas Eve, so phone arrangements were made (with the help of a kind traveler at the airport) to transport the twins to our Staten Island home by taxi. Culture shock had to be mitigated by John as he pointed out that it was not necessary to wear an overcoat and knit cap to bed in our heated parsonage. Other reminders had to be made, but we all survived. The twins remained in the US, sent for brides, and their families have visited our family through the years – without overcoats!

Yes, indeed, a shared Christmas brings much joy!

-Janet Johnson

In central Jersey in a little country town, I grew up in the Martinsville Methodist Church. It was the only church in town, literally. We had good and caring Sunday School teachers, whose example by the way they lived their lives and their commitment to teaching was at least as influential as the lessons they taught. Sunday School lessons were the Old Testament stories with a break for Christmas and Easter celebrations. There was no mention of Advent; in fact, I didn’t learn about Advent until we came to SUMC. But looking back, while what happened during the week before Christmas may not have been an Advent observance, we kids knew it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.

Martinsville was not a wealthy town by a long shot. My family lived paycheck to paycheck, and it was only when I was an adult that I learned we were better off than most people in town. So the Sunday School Christmas celebration was something every child in town looked forward to, big time! I wondered later as an adult if that was the biggest Christmas celebration many of my friends had.

All the families came and brought their kids. The church was crowded and buzzing. There was a huge Christmas tree, candles sparkled, and it was warm. The party began with each of us kids saying a “piece”, usually a poem or short writing, memorized, with the older kids giving the longer poems. (I always had to teach my younger brother his poem, and one time I began to say his piece and had to start over with mine.) After everyone had spoken, the Sunday School Superintendent read the Christmas story, and then the really exciting time began: each child received a navel orange (citrus was not as available and affordable then, so it was precious) and a Whole Box of Hershey Kisses, a Whole Box! The event was a big deal to me because my Mom and Dad came, too. (Usually my father dropped me off for Sunday School and then bought the Sunday paper and chatted with whoever came into the paper store, while Mom made Sunday dinner.)

It was definitely not the Advent that I learned about here at SUMC many years later. One could say it wasn’t Advent at all. But to me it’s one of my favorite Advent/Christmas memories, because as we sang Christmas carols, we knew the baby Jesus would be born in another few days! That was when I knew for sure it was going to be Christmas.

My adult children ask me the same question each year. After thinking about it, I decided to give them my real answer.

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, worries, and classes.
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.
I have the things I need. I want to see you healthy and happy.
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.

Prayer: May we all focus our hearts on the reason for the Advent season. Reflect on the birth of Christ and the tremendous difference He makes in your life. Pray for wisdom to keep this holiday season blessed rather than stressed.

-Nancy Sweeney (shared from an e-mail she received from a friend)

One of the writing prompts for this Advent Blog project is: “What’s the moment when you feel as if ‘the Christmas season has really begun now’…?”

Well … here’s one of mine, at least.

The first curious looks come my way as I reach into the back seat of my car and pull out my acoustic bass guitar. No case. Just the bass. I cross the parking lot, a human non sequitur: what possesses someone to walk through a busy parking lot full of pedestrians and (thankfully slow-moving) cars, carrying a musical instrument, on a thirty-degree Saturday afternoon? Alone?

The next curious looks come my way as I carry that bass into the supermarket, directing a cheery nod to the Salvation Army bell ringer and a wide smile to the shoppers who are also trying to make their way inside. My nod and smile are generally not returned, because we are all stoic New Englanders, and also the guy with the bass is obviously a loon.

The next approximately seven hundred curious looks come my way as I stand with ten or fifteen friends and friends-of-those-friends as we stand in the middle of the Sudbury Farms produce section and serenade everyone who walks through the main entrance just a few yards away.

“Let’s sing page 10 next!”

“Great! What’s that?”

“‘Joy to the World!'”

“Great! What’s the key?”

“How ’bout D?”

“How ’bout C? I haven’t warmed up.”

“Okay!”

And Russ (the fantastic guitarist) and I (the self-taught bass player) and our band of merry singers launch into carol after carol after slightly-more-secular holiday favorite, drawing smiles from a just-high-enough percentage of people that we could claim to have done our job — providing harried holiday shoppers with a bit of entertainment even if we are keeping them from getting to the bags of carrots, and letting everyone know that music is alive and well at Sudbury United Methodist Church and if they wanted to visit us sometime they would be more than welcome …

… when what we’re doing, equally, is enjoying each other’s company and doing what (I am led to understand) was regularly done a hundred or a hundred twenty-five years ago, on street corners and in shops all over this great land of ours: Music-making. Live. Unamplified.

And, in this case, in this moment, we’re also singing songs that we don’t sing at any other time of year. We don’t sing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” at late-summer barbecues. We don’t play “Jingle Bell Rock” at junior proms. And the one time that a summer drum-and-bugle corps played a field show full of Advent and Christmas music, it seemed weird.

Whether we wear silly Santa hats (we do), or whether we wear suspect Christmas sweaters (we sometimes do), or whether we add in snarky responses to every. single. line. of. “Rudolph” (sadly, that’s a normal thing now) … that’s the moment, I think, for me at least, when I know: it’s begun. It’s now okay to pop the Vince Guaraldi CD in the car and play it loud.

It’s on.

It’s Christmas.

Let’s do this.

And … well, it wouldn’t be 2020 without a buzz-kill COVID postscript; but in this case, I’ll not wallow.

Those Christmastime supermarket “flash mob” caroling runs will happen again.

They just will.

This year, I’ll remember them actively. And then in future years I will move heaven and earth to make sure I don’t miss them.

Merry Christmas. Now, and down the road.

Just let’s sing “Silent Night” in G major, not B-flat, if that’s okay with you.