“Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.  Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.  But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream…”

– Matthew 1:18-20a

Beloved of God,

This month we enter the Year of Matthew. Not that we won’t also hear from Luke at Christmas—and a good deal from John, too, especially during Easter. But Matthew is our gospel of reference as Advent and the story of Jesus’ birth begin to unfold.  And Matthew’s take on the story is decidedly different than Luke’s.  In Luke’s story—with which we’re most familiar, the one we hear told every Christmas Eve—Mary holds center stage and the narrative follows her encounter with God’s messenger Gabriel, her visit to her pregnant elder cousin Elizabeth, her journey with Joseph to Bethlehem and the circumstances which attend Jesus’ birth there.  But in Matthew’s story Joseph has a much more prominent role in the drama:  it is he rather than Mary who has the encounter with God’s messenger (in a dream…like his ancestor and namesake Joseph, the son of Jacob); it is he who takes in and trusts the news that the Holy Spirit—and not some other guy—is responsible for his fiancée being pregnant.  Matthew takes us inside Joseph’s process of discerning what he should do when Mary tells him she’s expecting.  He’s described as a “righteous man,” one willing to go the extra mile and unwilling to expose Mary to public disgrace.  In a Middle Eastern culture highly focused on honor and shame, that’s saying something.

In countries throughout the Middle East and South Asia even today one hears of fathers who undertake to preserve their family honor by putting their daughters to death for real, assumed, or rumored transgressions.  If a woman or girl in these places is accused or suspected of engaging in behavior that could taint her family’s status, she can face brutal retaliation from her relatives that often results in violent death.  The United Nations estimates that around 5,000 women and girls are murdered each year in so-called “honor killings” by members of their families.  According to Amnesty International these so-called “honor” crimes are rooted in a global culture of discrimination against women, and the deeply rooted belief that women are objects and commodities, not human beings entitled to dignity and rights equal to those of men.  Women’s bodies, particularly, are considered the repositories of family honor, and under the control and responsibility of her family (especially her male relatives).  Large sections of these societies share traditional conceptions of family honor and approve of “honor” killings to preserve that honor.  Neither is America immune. This narrative found its way to our shores ten years ago in the case of Noor Almaleki, a 20 year old woman of Iraqi heritage who was run over and killed in Phoenix, Arizona, by a car driven by her father, Faleh Hassan Almaleki. (He was later convicted of manslaughter and is serving a 34 year sentence for her death.)

In the culture in which Joseph was raised the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. This leads me to ask: How difficult was it REALLY for Joseph to choose not to expose Mary to public disgrace and scorn and potential violence, but instead to let their betrothal go away quietly?  This high stakes tightrope of a story, told so sparingly by Matthew, beckons us to reflect more deeply on how it is that the Creator of the Universe would tread so closely to the edge of chaos in order become Emmanuel—God with us. As the Year of Matthew unfolds, we’ll return to that question—and many others, again and again.

“O Come, O, Come, Immanuel!”

“As you therefore have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.”

– Colossians 2:6-7

Beloved of God,

My first Call brought me and my young family to the Redwood Coast of Northwestern California where I remember the excitement of exploring those ancient forests.  Driving south on Highway 101 along the Eel River we entered Humboldt Redwoods State Park, one of the last remaining refuges for the great trees, and took the exit for FOUNDER’S GROVE.  Stepping out of the car in that majestic grove was like stepping into a cathedral.  The sheer scale of the trees left us slack jawed and tongue-tied.  Within a ten mile radius of where we stood were some of the largest and most accessible Redwood giants on the planet—trees that towered over 350 feet, with trunks measuring 15 feet or more in diameter, some of which were seedlings when Jesus was a boy. Redwoods were turning soil, air, and water into leaf, branch, and trunk eons before human beings made their appearance on planet Earth.   So ancient is the trees’ lineage that the footfalls of dinosaurs once echoed between their trunks. And now here we were standing in their shadows, craning our necks in awe, hushed and humbled by these greatest of living beings.

What allows these majestic trees to achieve a longevity that other tree species cannot? In a word: their root system. But it isn’t the depth of the root system that makes the critical difference—even the greatest giants have roots extending only 6-12 feet deep. It’s the breadth of the root system that’s key. Redwoods create the strength to withstand powerful winds and floods through the centuries by extending their roots more than 50 feet from the trunk and by living in groves where those roots can intertwine. Recent research into forest ecology has shown that interlocking root systems like these provide not only physical support; the healthier trees actually share nutrient resources with the younger and more vulner­able trees with which they are connected. Trees, it turns out, know something about living in a supportive community.

When measured against the lifespan of an ancient Redwood, the 75 years the Peace Lutheran has been around is a brief moment in time. Yet in human terms, it’s not insignificant. The same principle that contributes to the health and longevity of Redwood trees contributes to the health and longevity of human communities—namely our ability to extend our roots outward, to cultivate shared commitments and shoulder shared burdens, to grow strong and interdependent from the name we receive at the Font and the nourishment we receive at the Table. The congregation we know as PEACE grows stronger when we promote a healthy interdependence and attentiveness to needs and opportunities which exist within our community and this neighborhood at 39th and Thistle where God has planted us.

During the run-up to our 75th Celebration all sorts of new gifts and givers have surfaced—one of the great outcomes of this whole process!  Our yearlong celebration of God’s steadfast accompaniment with us over three quarters of a century has brought renewed energy.  A good deal of that energy has been focused on updating our physical structure so that it better reflects the vibrant nature of our community.  But the energy must not stop there.  It must spill out beyond these doors and walls and windows into our neighborhood; the roots must continue to grow outward, seeking new connections.  This is always the journey which we’re about.  A joy filled and thanksful 75th dear Peacefolk!  I can’t wait to see what God will be up to next.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

When the poor ones, who have nothing, still are giving;

when the thirsty pass the cup, water to share;

when the wounded offer others strength and healing:

We see God, here by our side, walking our way;

we see God, here by our side, walking our way.

– José Antonio Oliver, ELW #725

Beloved of God,

In spite of serving as a pastor in the Lutheran Church for 33 years, I had never heard the name Jehu Jones, Jr., until last month.  His story, as the first African American to be ordained a Lutheran pastor, is at once an inspiring example of determination against all odds, and “a melancholy and indeed shameful aspect of Lutheran History.”[1]

His father, Jehu Jones, Sr., who had purchased his own freedom from slavery, was a pew owning member of St. Philip’s Protestant Episcopal Church and proprietor of one of the finest hotels in Charleston, South Carolina.  A tailor by trade, Jehu Jr. had inherited his father’s name and business.  He brought his own children to St. Philip’s for baptism in 1815.  But shortly after the Lutheran Church of German Protestants (St. John’s Church) opened its doors to blacks in 1816, Jones and his wife Elizabeth became members.  Their subsequent children were baptized there by Pastor John Bachman.  In October of 1832, Jones felt a call to be a missionary in Liberia.  But he knew that, because of his race, southern Lutherans would not ordain him, so he sought an avenue of service in the North.  He arrived in New York City with letter from Pastor Bachman in hand and made contact with Pastor William Strobel, a former member of St. John’s, and after examination was ordained by the Ministerium of New York on October 24, 1832 at the age of 46.

But when Jones returned to his native South Carolina to prepare for the trip to Liberia, he was arrested and jailed under the Negro Seamen’s Act, which forbade any free Negro from reentering South Carolina and directed that free blacks could be jailed or put on the auction block.  Appearing before a judge, Jones was told he must spend time in jail or leave immediately.  He chose to leave, and after stopping home long enough to say goodbye to his wife and children, the youngest of whom was 3 days old, he departed Charleston for New York.  Exiled from his native city and unable to join the group from Charleston about to embark for Liberia, Jones sought another way to reach the colony, but his efforts and those of his supporters were rebuffed and the dream of ministering in Liberia was set aside.

In the spring of 1833, joined by his wife Elizabeth and nine children, he chose Philadelphia as his new home.  Arriving there with letters of recommendation, he was discouraged by leading Lutheran clergy from establishing a Lutheran church.  “The people will hate you because of your color,” he was told; why not join another communion—such as United Methodists, Presbyterians, or Baptists—who already count pastors of color among their ranks?  That, Jones insisted, was not an option; he was Lutheran through and through.  And so the establishment of a Lutheran mission to the black citizens of Philadelphia began to take root.

Using his own resources and those acquired through a fundraising tour, he bought land and began building St. Paul’s Church, the first independent African American Lutheran congregation.  But when the church encountered financial difficulties, rather than lend them aid, the Ministerium of Pennsylvania took title of the church building and failed to assist its pastor.  The New York Ministerium also rejected his appeal for funds, and eventually the building was sold to pay off acquired debts.  His subsequent appeal to the Synod of New York for permission and support to establish a Lutheran mission for the black community in New York was not only rejected by the synod, the validity of his ministry itself was called into question and he was unrightfully censored.

The institutional church failed Pastor Jones abysmally.  Even after all this, Pastor Jones continued to be faithful in keeping his Philadelphia congregation together without a building and he continued to preach. As late as 1851, at age 65, he could proudly assert, “I continue to preach to the colored congregation of St. Paul Lutheran Church.”  In the face of the Lutheran Church’s unfaithfulness to him, Pastor Jehu Jones remained faithful to the gospel.  He died September 28, 1852, the victim of prejudice, rejection, and institutional abuse.

In his book, DEAR CHURCH: A LOVE LETTER FROM A BLACK PREACHER TO THE WHITEST DENOMINATION IN THE U.S., ELCA Pastor Lenny Duncan makes an impassioned plea for our church and society at large to acknowledge our captivity to white supremacy. The community Duncan serves in the heart of Brooklyn takes its name from Pastor Jehu Jones; it’s called Jehu’s Table.  Duncan’s book, the subject of our Adult Sunday class through this month, is provocative and challenging.  And it belongs at the center of discussions about the prevalence of white racism in church and society and in congregational life.

This month, as we celebrate the various ways our congregation has engaged and is engaging in ministries of social outreach, assistance, and advocacy, we remain mindful of the reality that systemic oppressions of all kinds bedevil our culture at every level. The church’s responsibility in the midst of this reality is not only to feed the hungry and bind up the wounded, but to consciously engage and defeat white supremacy and the other demonic forces within us and without that call into question the image of God that resides in every human being.

Jesus’ ministry among those who were marginalized, his model of bringing them into the circle and challenging the forces—both social and spiritual—that supported them, must be our model. The impulse to reach out and serve, as you’ll see in the article by Boots Winterstein below, is embedded in our congregation’s DNA.  That’s something to celebrate, even while we remain alert to the continuing work to which God, and siblings in Christ like Pastor Duncan, call us.

[1] Philip Pfatteicher, New Book of Festivals and Commemorations.  2008.  Much of what I share here is taken from Pfatteicher’s article on Rev. Jones, an essay in The Lutheran Quarterly, Volume X, 1996 by Karl E. Johnson, Jr. and Joseph E. Romeo, as well as from Lenny Duncan’s book, Dear Church….(Augsburg Fortress, 2019)