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Dear members and friends of Redeemer,

These are disorienting times. We feel the weight of division, uncertain how to speak or where to stand. In such moments, we might turn to Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who understood what it meant to seek Christian community under pressure. Writing from Nazi Germany while leading an underground seminary, Bonhoeffer produced Life Together, a meditation on what holds us when everything else seems to be falling apart.

Community as Gift

Bonhoeffer begins with a simple truth: Christian community is not something we create. It is something we receive. We exhaust ourselves trying to make community into what we think it should be. Bonhoeffer calls these our “wish dreams,” idealized visions that can prevent us from receiving the real, flesh-and-blood community God has given us.

The person whose politics baffle you, whose presence sometimes irritates you—this is the community you have been given. Not the one you would have chosen, but the one that is yours. There is freedom in this. We are not responsible for manufacturing unity. We are responsible for receiving what is already here, for recognizing that we have been gathered by Someone beyond ourselves.

The Rhythm of Solitude and Togetherness

Real community requires both togetherness and solitude. We cannot truly be together if we have not learned to be alone. In solitude, we learn to stand before God without others’ voices or expectations. Without this, our togetherness becomes superficial—we show up with masks rather than our actual selves. But without community, our solitude can become self-absorbed, untethered from the demands of love. We need the rhythm. Both withdrawal and constant togetherness can be ways of avoiding real community—one hides in absence, the other in noise.

Confession and Forgiveness

Here Bonhoeffer is more challenging. He insists that real community requires confession—not vague acknowledgment of our general sinfulness, but actual confession of actual sins to one another. This is where wish dreams die completely. We would rather maintain the appearance of having it all together, but Bonhoeffer knows that such pretense is the death of genuine fellowship.

In confession, we break through to the community. We stop performing and start being known. And in being known—truly known, with our failures and our brokenness visible—we discover whether grace is real or just a word we use in worship. Bonhoeffer writes that it is often easier to confess our sins to God than to another Christian, because in the presence of another person our sin can no longer remain abstract. But it is precisely there, in that uncomfortable exposure, that we meet the Christ who forgives.

 The Ministry of Listening

Bonhoeffer writes that listening is the first service we owe one another. Not advice, not solutions—listening. We are so eager to speak, to fix, to share our own experience, that we listen only long enough to find our opening. But true listening requires patience, the willingness to sit with someone’s pain or confusion without rushing to resolve it.

Our sequence hymn for this Sunday, the one sung right before the Gospel reading, “Make Me a Blessing” captures this beautifully: “Be to the helpless a helper indeed, unto your mission be true.” Sometimes being a helper means simply being present, offering the gift of our attention rather than the urgency of our solutions. Bonhoeffer suggests that those who can no longer listen to their brothers and sisters will soon no longer be able to listen to God.

In times of division, listening becomes crucial, not as a substitute for moral clarity, but as the means by which we truly understand what we’re facing. Listening is difficult, disciplined work. It doesn’t require us to accept what is harmful, but it does ask us to see clearly what is actually before us, to resist reducing people to caricatures of their worst moments.

We do not get to choose the time we live in or the people we are called to love. But we do get to choose how we receive what we have been given. We can open our hands. We can practice the rhythm of solitude and togetherness. We can risk the honesty of confession and the grace of forgiveness. We can listen. We can pray with the hymn writer, “Out of my life may Jesus shine; Make me a blessing, O Savior, I pray. Make me a blessing to someone today.” This is enough. This is the work.

Grace and peace,
Keith+

Ignatius of Loyola was raised to question everything.  He was born in the Basque Region of northern Spain in 1491 and one of his older brothers accompanied that first discovery voyage across the Atlantic Ocean to the Americas.  His upbringing was a front row seat to the advent reality that the world was actually much bigger than they had thought it was, the understanding of what is possible came into question daily as family dinner conversations were steeped in imaginations, stories, and the occasional updates from what to them was a new world.  At his own coming of age, Ignatius, in typical dramatic form, handed his sword and armor over to God to follow in the footsteps of Francis of Assisi and the other saints who chose poverty over riches, humility over pride, and community over self-importance.  He would go on to undergo a lifelong transformation that led him to found the Society of Jesus, known today as the Jesuits.  His lasting gifts to the universal church include the Spiritual Exercises, countless schools and universities across the globe, international and local social justice and advocacy centers that serve immigrant, refugee, and asylum communities, and a worldview that is committed to finding God in all things.

At the heart of his spirituality is an intimate relationship with Jesus Christ, in which one speaks to Jesus as one friend speaks to another, heart to heart.  Ignatius arrives at this intimacy by integrating our faith with our reality.  He weaves together the God that we encounter in the scriptures with the God that we encounter on our commute to work in the morning.  And he tells us that this same God, the Living God, the Holy One, can only be found in reality.  God is not present with us in the world that we wish existed.  God is with us in the world as it is.  In our days as they are.  In us as we are.

Jesuit institutions joke that when someone truly enters into this stance or this way of seeing God and the world, they are ruined for life.  Ruined because it is no longer sufficient to accept the status quo or to settle for how we have always done things.  Fully trusting that God is with us in reality compels us to dream and work for a greater reality, one that does not settle for anything but love.  Many who have followed this way have done great things in the name of love.

Saint Peter Faber, one of Ignatius’ college roommates at the University of Paris, along with Saint Francis Xavier, devoted his life to mending relationships during the volatile years following the Reformation.  When many professional churchmen wanted to draw lines in the sand and prove that they were right, Peter set out to repair friendships and remind people that though they disagreed, they still belonged to one another, they were still friends, neighbors, and family.  They were still the Body of Christ.

Saint Peter Claver, after being told time and again that he didn’t fit in within the community, devoted the majority of his adult life to caring for men and women who were being shipped into the Americas to be sold as slaves.  Though he could not end slavery alone, he did what he could to make sure that these people knew that they were loved and that they were still human beings, though they were being treated in horrifically inhumane ways.  Perhaps one of the earliest community organizers in the Americas, he did what he could to build relationships and give voice to people who were experiencing one of the worst atrocities ever.

Blessed Rutilio Grande Garcia came to believe in and dedicate his life to spreading “a Gospel that has little feet.”  He is known for articulating liberation theology within the context of the poor in his home country of El Salvador.  Personal friend and precursor of sorts to Oscar Romero, Rutilio was transformed by his relationships with those who were poor, farmers, laborers, men, women, and children alike.  He saw God alive in them and remaining with them in their struggle for gaining a voice and freedom from oppression.  Rutilio ultimately gave his life entirely to a movement that continues to kindle political reform and growth towards justice in El Salvador and across the world.

The prayer that animated these people in their work of building community and striving for justice was a prayer that integrates the God that we encounter in the scriptures with the God that we encounter in our daily lives.  This is Ignatian Prayer and it is prayer that resides outside the box, animating its practitioners to be contemplatives in action.

A small group of us have begun practicing this form of prayer on Thursday mornings, at 8:00 in the chapel.  We sit with the Gospel reading for the coming Sunday and in silence compose the place, imagining where it is that this story either took place in history or where it would take place today in the context of our lives.  We imagine this place: what does it smell like; how does it feel; what do you see and hear; what does it taste like to be there?  We then imagine as the scene unfolds.  Sometimes staying on the sidelines as a bystander, other times entering into the story as one of the main characters.  If drawn, we speak with Jesus or someone else who was there.  Entering into the sacred story, we make it our own.  Then we turn to the Table where we reenact the gathering of friends at the Last Supper, we share Eucharist, and we invite God into our lives here and now.  After this, we share what happened in our prayer and together we paint an image of this experience that is full of color, meaning, and depth.

There is much that this way of prayer can offer us in any time, but maybe particularly now.  In time we may have more opportunities to practice Ignatian Prayer, but for now I want to personally invite you to join us on Thursday mornings at 8:00 in the chapel.  Following in this centuries-old way of prayer, we integrate the God that we encounter in scripture with the God that we encounter in our daily lives and this grounds and animates us to bring the love, community, and justice that we see in God to become more fully the love, community, and justice that we see and experience around us in our world today.

~Josh

When things grow dark, when words fail me, I turn to the words of scripture and to the One who is the Word. There I find grounding. Comfort. Challenge. Over the years, the psalms in particular have been written into my heart through tones and tunes, their melodies carrying truth deeper than words alone.

The heaviness and cold of this week have drawn me especially to Psalm 27, the psalm appointed for this Sunday’s worship. Its opening line calls to mind a favorite Taizé chant I love to sing: “The Lord is my light and salvation; in God I trust.” Perhaps you know it. You can listen and sing along with it here.

Blackout poetry is one creative way of engaging and praying with the words of scripture, of discovering perspective and meaning already present on the page. The process is simple. Begin by reading through the text slowly, circling or highlighting words and phrases that capture your attention. Then return to the text and cross out what you no longer need, noticing if new words emerge. If you need connecting words, look carefully to see whether they already exist in the text between the words you have chosen. If they don’t, it’s okay to add them, along with punctuation if needed. Once your poem or prayer has taken shape, black out the unused words with a Sharpie or your word processor’s black highlighter.

Below (also available here) is my blackout poem using Psalm 27. Would you like to try? Here’s a link to the full text where you can begin. If you feel comfortable, I hope you’ll share your poem prayer.

Much love,
Anna

^_____ Lord, ______________________
whom shall I fear?
_____________________   ________
________________________

^____________ evildoers? ________
______________
___ adversaries? __________
_____________________

^_ Though ________________________
_______________________
______ war rises up, __________
_____ I will be confident.

^{_______________________________________}
______ I seek _
to live. ____________________
______________________,
to behold ____ beauty. _________
_______________________

^{__________________________________________}
in the day of trouble,
___________________________________
___________________________

^{_____________________________________}
______________________________
____ I will _____________
sacrifice. ________________
I will sing. ____________________

^{________________} When I cry, ______
_____________________________
^{_____________________________________________
__________________________________________}

______________________________
______________________ help
____________________________ me,
O God of my salvation!
^{_______________________________________________}
_____________________

^__ Teach me _____________
_________________________
_____________________
^{_______________________} to ___________________
_________ witness ___________ against ___
_____________________ violence

^{______________________________________________________}
in the land ___________
^{____________________________}
__________ and ______________ take courage.
__________________

 

Last September, 35 clergy leaders in Metro IAF gathered on retreat at the Maritime Conference Center in Linthicum Heights, MD. As many of you know, Redeemer is a member institution of Baltimoreans United In Leadership Development (BUILD), an affiliate of Metro IAF which is part of the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF). Founded in 1940, IAF is our nation’s largest and longest standing network of local faith and community-based organizations. One of the pieces we read and reflected on together was a speech by Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King on “creative maladjustment”. At the end of our retreat , responding to an invitation from our colleagues and inspired by our discussion, 5 of us agreed to work together to craft a brief theological statement honoring the faith traditions of our member institutions — which include synagogues and mosques as well as churches — that could ground and guide our work in our communities, in our current political moment, morally, spiritually and theologically.

Over the last 3 months, Rev Rashad Moore, East Brooklyn Congregations (EBC); Rev Cameron Barr, Orange County Justice United (OCJU); Rev Tanya Johnson, Durham Congregations, Associations & Neighborhoods (Durham CAN); Rev Doug Slaughter, Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF) GA/SC; and I have spent time together on Zoom and communicating via email, text and phone. We have also spoken with and listened to our clergy colleagues with whom we relate in our various contexts. Yesterday, our larger group from the September retreat received the final draft of our theological statement; those who are able to gather on Zoom this afternoon at 4pm will offer their reactions and responses to what we’ve written. Our final approved reflection will then be available for Metro IAF/ IAF clergy leaders in our various cities and regions around the country to use and share, in sermons and social media, op-eds, etc. This will all be discussed on Zoom this afternoon.

Here is a link to the draft of the text, and here is a link to a voice recording of it.

“May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.”

~ Cristina

Dear members and friends of Redeemer,

As we step into this new year and celebrate the season of Epiphany, I find myself drawn to the image of light—how it reveals, how it guides, how it transforms everything it touches.

The Great Reveal

Epiphany means “manifestation” or “revealing,” and in these weeks following Christmas, we witness Jesus revealing himself in extraordinary ways. The Magi follow a star and find the newborn king. At his baptism, the heavens open and God’s voice declares, “This is my beloved Son.” Jesus goes throughout Galilee, teaching in synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, curing every disease and every sickness among the people. Light upon light upon light—each revealing more of who Christ is and what his coming means for the world.

But here’s what strikes me: these revelations aren’t just about Jesus making himself known. They’re about what becomes visible when light enters the world. The Magi’s journey reveals their seeking hearts. The baptism reveals Jesus’s solidarity with humanity. The curing of diseases and sickness reveals his concern with our whole person: body, mind, and spirit.

Light reveals. And sometimes what it reveals is us.

Resolutions or Revelations?

This time of year, we’re surrounded by talk of resolutions and self-improvement. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to grow, but I wonder if we’re asking ourselves the wrong question. Instead of “How can I fix myself this year?” what if we asked, “What is God revealing to me? What light is trying to shine through?”

Maybe the real work of a new year isn’t forcing ourselves into better versions through sheer willpower. Maybe it’s removing whatever blocks the light that’s already trying to shine through us—the fears, the grudges, the old stories we tell ourselves about who we are or aren’t.

The Magi didn’t create the star. They followed it. They let themselves be led by light they didn’t conjure. There’s wisdom in that kind of surrender.

Shining Lights

Jesus tells us, “You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.”

You are already light. Not “you will be light if you try hard enough” or “you should be light.” You are. The question is: what’s the bowl? What are we hiding our light under—whether from fear, exhaustion, doubt, or simply forgetting who we are?

As we journey through this Epiphany season together, I invite you to hold this question gently: Where is God’s light trying to shine through you this year? It might be in a relationship that needs mending, a gift you’ve been afraid to share, a word you’ve been hesitant to speak, or a joy you’ve been reluctant to claim.

An Invitation

In the coming weeks, I’d love to hear from you. If you’re willing, share with me or with our community:

• One way you hope to let your light shine more freely this year
• One area where you’re seeking God’s revelation or guidance
• One “bowl” you’re ready to remove

Let’s not walk this path alone. The Magi traveled together. So can we.

May this season of light reveal to each of us what we most need to see—about God, about ourselves, and about the world we’re called to illuminate.

In the light of Christ,
Keith+

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.” — Isaiah 60:1