 Plaque at St Anthony's Church, Cartmel Fell, Cumbria (stridingedge.net) When the holy Abba Anthony lived in the desert he was beset by accidie, and attacked by many sinful thoughts. He said to God, 'Lord, I want to be saved but these thoughts do not leave me alone; what shall I do in my affliction? How can I be saved?' A short while afterwards, when he got up to go out, Anthony saw a man like himself sitting at his work, getting up from his work to pray, then sitting down and plaiting a rope, then getting up again to pray. It was an angel of the Lord sent to correct and reassure him. He heard the angel saying to him, 'Do this and you will be saved.' At these words, Anthony was filled with joy and courage. He did this, and he was saved. *** Someone asked the same Abba Anthony, 'What must one do in order to please God?' The old man replied, 'Pay attention to what I tell you: whoever you may be, always have God before your eyes; whatever you do, do it according to the testimony of the holy scriptures; in whatever place you live, do not easily leave it. Keep these three precepts and you will be saved.' *** Abba Pambo asked Abba Anthony, 'What ought I to do?' and the old man said to him, 'Do not trust in your own righteousness, do not worry about the past, but control your tongue and your stomach.' *** Abba Anthony said, 'I saw the snares that the enemy spreads out over the world and I said groaning, 'What can get through from such snares?' Then I heard a voice saying to me, 'Humility'. *** He also said, 'Our life and our death is with our neighbour. If we gain our brother, we have gained God, but if we scandalise our brother, we have sinned against Christ.' *** A hunter in the desert saw Abba Anthony enjoying himself with the brethren and he was shocked. Wanting to show him that it was necessary sometimes to meet the needs of the brethren, the old man said to him, 'Put an arrow in your bow and shoot it.' So he did. The old man then said, 'Shoot another', and he did so. Then the old man said, 'Shoot yet again', and the hunter replied 'If I bend my bow so much I will break it.' Then the old man said to him, 'It is the same with the work of God. If we stretch the brethren beyond measure they will soon break. Sometimes it is necessary to come down to meet their needs.' When he heard these words the hunter was pierced by compunction and, greatly edified by the old man, he went away. As for the brethren, they went home strengthened. *** It was revealed to Abba Anthony in his desert that there was one who was his equal in the city. He was a doctor by profession and whatever he had beyond his needs he gave to the poor, and every day he sang the Sanctus with the angels. *** Abba Anthony said, 'Whoever hammers a lump of iron, first decides what he is going to make of it, a scythe, a sword, or an axe. Even so we ought to make up our minds what kind of virtue we want to forge or we labour in vain.' From The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (trans. by Benedicta Ward, SLG).
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By Anthony S. Zimmer Maybe that job is a sacrament by which we are becoming Christian. Maybe it is saving us. We dreamt of achieving a vocation – and we worked hard for it! I remember the diligence, the faithfulness. But we live east of Eden. We strove to flourish, to “bloom where you are planted”, but the ground was cursed, and our souls withered on the vine, replaced by thorns and thistles. Those failures – the pain, the anger, the frustration, the despair – exposed our hearts to ourselves. And what is sanctification but first the revealing of our hearts? And what is sanctification but second the giving and receiving of grace? Maybe that job, like baptism, is a plunge into dying and a grace unto living. Can our half-saved hearts trust us with the jobs we want? Might it not root our hearts deeper into the soil of a corrupted kingdom? Might not Money/Pride/Power, its accumulation and storage, accumulate and store us? Might we become too sated by this fallen kingdom and forget how to criticize it, forget how to mourn? We forget that our first vocation, our first divine calling, is to pick up our cross and follow Christ. Do and be. Leave will do and will be to the vagaries of humanity and the constancy of grace. Anthony S. Zimmer has served in a variety of pastoral roles in America and South Africa. Bi-vocational, he lives and works at the nexus of business, missions, local ministry and theology. He holds a bachelor’s in Bible and Theology, an MBA, and is working towards an MA in Biblical Interpretation.
Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Terry Jarvis After eight months of getting up at 4am to go on the round and often working well into the evening on the figure work, it was a terrific shock to find myself out of work. I felt suddenly that my life had come to a total standstill. The pressure of the recent years weighed on me, and I felt crushed by the burden of my own inadequacy. For two whole days I lay face down on a sun bed outside in the yard in a state of semi-consciousness. I couldn’t think. I had no mind. No will. Nothing. Nothing but fear and a gnawing emptiness. I was living a nightmare. I was falling to bits. I couldn’t even talk to Sue. No one could help me. Only God. I made up my mind to pray and pray until I got through to him again. I prayed. Fell asleep. Awoke and prayed again. Slept some more. Prayed again. I felt as if all hell were let loose on me. Near the end of the second day I was feeling desperate to fill the emptiness in my heart with something from God. I reached for the Bible lying on the ground by the bed. I opened it and read: ‘It is God who is all the while effectually at work in you – energising and creating in you the power and desire – both to will and to work for his good pleasure and satisfaction and delight' (Philippians 2:13, Amplified Bible). That was it! That was really it! God was clearly speaking to me through this verse, telling me that he was working in me, making me willing… making me willing even when I didn’t feel willing… giving me the power and desire to do his will. The thought began to put me together. For the first time I felt free to think about what I really wanted to do and confident that my will and God’s will could be one and the same. And the instant I turned my mind to consider what desire there was in my heart about what I should do with my life, I was surprised to find that there were things tucked away there unrecognised. I pieced together the thoughts. My desire was this – to live entirely by faith and trust in God, to preach his message and to rely on him to meet the needs of myself and my family. But, even as this revelation came, I knew that I wasn’t yet ready for that life. So did I have a practical desire for the present? Yes. I was startled to discover that deep down I did have a very real desire. I wanted to be a craftsman! *** Why? Where had that strong desire come from? I saw a picture in my mind of a small resentful boy standing all alone facing a wall. It was me, in that children’s home so long ago, hurting, being punished. And for what? For whittling away at a lump of chalk with a toy drill. As long as I could remember, I’d always loved whittling sticks or lumps of clay or chalk. It came naturally. I enjoyed it. I might even be good at it. Could I be a woodcarver? I remembered what Sue had said to me years before when she’d watched me working away at a set of chess pieces in Manchester. Then I had been experimenting with mounds of clay baked in the oven, scraping away for hours to achieve some level of satisfaction. ‘You’ve got a talent for it. Use it for God,’ Sue had said. This was enough to put me back on my feet. I wasn’t sure where to begin, but I was convinced God was showing me that I should work with my hands. I’d already done a lot of experimenting in my spare time, using different rubber solutions to make moulds to reproduce chess pieces in resin. I got to work again, getting books on carving and practising endlessly on odd pieces of wood. Recognisable shapes began to emerge. Animals mostly, or birds. I prayed for a shed to work in – and almost immediately a friend told me about her mother’s next-door neighbour who wanted a shed taken away. I prayed for tools – and was given the opportunity to buy practically everything I needed to equip the shed for a fraction of the real price. Being creative in this way, actually producing something of value with my own hands, was the start of a new confidence and a healing closeness with God. I spent hours in my little shed in the garden – and worked for God and with God. As I shaped and caressed my rough sawn block and began to see emerging the antlers of a stag or the wing of a bird, I could almost feel God at work in my life, shaping and loving me. It wasn’t all plain sailing, but then, didn’t I sometimes have to take the roughest of files to my wood in my search for the best result? Working when you have to is boring, but when it’s a heart’s desire because it’s God’s will, then it’s perfect! Working in the will of the Lord is a delight! And he gives us the power to accomplish it. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy at first to make any money from my work, slow as it was. I decided to look for a job until my work improved enough to guarantee regular work. At the local employment exchange, I saw an advertisement for a driver with a joinery business. Bad memories of my time with the men at the radiator repair yard came flooding back, and I turned away. But when I returned three weeks later, I had the nagging feeling that God wanted me to take that job; sure enough, it was still on the board, and I applied. As it turned out, my fears were unfounded. It was a pleasant small family company of high-class joiners. And, as well as feeding us for the next year or so, the job had one other very valuable benefit: the carpenters, who got to know of my woodcarving, often passed me generous offcuts of really good quality wood which kept me well supplied in my shed for a long time. *** Carving new shapes from old… that was at long last happening in my life, too. And at long last, I felt I could cope with helping others. During this time I began to make contacts with prisons and remand homes and started to visit there, hesitantly at first but with growing confidence when I saw that the men and boys I talked to were interested in finding out what had happened to someone who really knew by experience what they were going through. Since my time in Manchester, I’d longed to visit prisoners...I met a chaplain who invited me to speak at Feltham Borstal, and that’s how I was finally able to start visiting the prisons. Also, our church fellowship had a singing group which used to visit prisons, and I began to use this as an opportunity to speak about my experience of coming to God. Following that, I was given invitations to speak at many prisons, including Wormwood Scrubs, Wandsworth, and Winchester. On one occasion, eight prisoners at Pentonville were converted after I shared my story with them. One afternoon, I was in Twickenham Library, in the reference section. I often went there to study books to get ideas for designs for my woodworking. I looked up as a creaking of the floor announced the arrival of someone else. An elderly, gentle-looking man with an umbrella hanging from his wrist and a big smile on his face searched the room with his eyes, obviously looking for someone. When he saw me, he marched right over and thrust a piece of folded paper into my hand. ‘God wants me to give you this,’ he said, still smiling broadly. Then he turned briskly and disappeared round the shelves of books. I was astounded. I’d never seen the man before and never had anything like this happen to me. I unfolded the bit of paper and read a Bible reference. I could hardly wait to get home and look it up. The verse was from Matthew 7:7: ‘Keep on asking, and it will be given you; keep on seeking, and you will find; keep on knocking (reverently), and the door will be opened to you’ (Amplified Bible). It was an exciting way for God to confirm to me that I was going in the right direction. I would keep on seeking, keep on with God, keep on wanting to do his will. Having found his will, I wasn’t going to let it go easily, no matter how tough the going got. Terry Jarvis is a wood carver and author based in Cumbria, England.
Terry's other work on Foreshadow: I Found a New Life (Non-fiction, 2021) 'Carving New Shapes from Old' is excerpted from Terry's book The Long Search (print version; ebook version). It has been republished here with the author's permission. Below is Terry's description of The Long Search: I'm a wood carver with a special love for working with driftwood. Right now I’m planning to create an original floor lamp from a large and beautiful piece of wood that is deeply grooved and lined from the effects of the ocean. I call it ‘the castle in the sky’ because that’s what I see in its shape. I want to mount it on a curved white pebble base and light the ‘walls’ and ‘windows’ and ‘turrets’ from below. My piece of driftwood has been shaped so creatively by the action of the waves – just as my life has been shaped by events, circumstances, difficulties and trials. The rough and smooth parts of my character have been moulded by the days that have gone before. I have been tested and tried as a person. By the age of 22, I had travelled much of the world, largely in pursuit of making money through drug smuggling. Although at one time I had a great deal of money, I discovered I was empty inside. Since I was a young kid, I believed there was a God. But after my mum died of a brain tumour and I found myself in the care system, I gave up praying. Despite the instability of my teenage years, deep down I always felt there was a God. However, my interest in spirituality took me on my travels into many religions and the occult. It was only when I literally got to the end of myself that I cried out to God in desperation. He heard me, and I began a whole new life. Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. Alice Wisler on helping bereaved parents through writing Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. ~James 1:17, NIV You can do it, an elderly poet and bereaved mother had written when asking me to lead a writing workshop. Sascha was well-loved in Denver and supposed to be in charge of the event, but since she wasn’t feeling well, she asked me to fill in for her. Get parents to write, she told me. It all sounded easy, but it wasn’t so easy for parents who had experienced the death of a child. Bereaved parents are heartbroken. They’ve gone through the worst pain. They mourn; they shout. On their really bad days, they’ve been tempted to smack a dozen moms who have healthy kids and life-is-grand attitudes. They are critical when it comes to those who want to tell them how to grieve, especially those who have never had to bury a child. “The hardest room in the world,” described one psychologist who was asked to talk to a group of bereaved moms and dads in a church basement. After his acknowledgement, the room let out a collective sigh. All the judgmental stares slithered under the front door. Bereaved parents are a tough crowd, and I would be facilitating a workshop for them at a conference where I knew no one. It would have been reassuring to have at least one person sit in the front row to smile and nod. I did have one advantage: I was not an outsider. I was one of them, a mom who had lost my son Daniel to a cancer-related death. I was also familiar with the workshop’s topic of writing. Every time I wrote in my journals and tear-stained, dog-eared notebooks, I was spared from driving off a cliff or smacking someone who told me I’d see my son again in heaven, so there was no reason to cry. Even though I had never stood before conference attendees and shared how to write and why writing is beneficial to healing, I knew that writing had saved my life. When I asked Sascha for advice on how to lead the workshop, she wrote: Get parents to put two words together. That’s how it starts. Two words together. Two words lead to three, and so on. Weeks later, I flew from my home in North Carolina to Denver, Colorado. I took my place behind the podium as parents trickled into the conference room and found seats. I smiled and hoped that no one knew that I was a novice and this was my first lesson. Would I be able to convince the gathering that unleashing pain onto paper is a gift? I thought of the ways my pen and keyboard had pounded out poems, articles, and journal entries, and how those actions had brought me therapeutic clarity. Breaking into my thoughts was a question from a woman in the front row. “Do we have to write?” Her black T-shirt had Loved and Remembered printed in gold letters across her chest. The sign by the door to the workshop clearly said Writing Workshop, but this was no time to argue. “You can do whatever you feel comfortable with,” I said. “I don’t write well. I just can’t write about my son. I’ve tried. Each time I sit down to write, I just cry.” I was sure that was true because she was crying. “That’s okay.” When the room quieted, I introduced myself. I told a bit of my story: how my beloved Daniel was diagnosed with neuroblastoma at age three and died from cancer treatments eight months later at four years old. I spoke of his love of watermelon, the beach, and the original Toy Story movie. One of the exercises I’d prepared for the group was to write poems in honor of their children. While writing through pain is vital, being able to recollect happy memories of our children is a comfort on the journey. I read a few poems from one of Sascha’s books and then told the gathering to put words together even if it was just two at a time. Chatter stopped as each person bent over his notepad. I heard muffled tears, saw a few people wipe their eyes, and as I watched, I prayed for a positive outcome. I wanted word to get back to Sascha that I’d been a successful substitute. After ten minutes, I asked if anyone wanted to share his or her poem. No one said a word. Some looked uncomfortable. Then a hand shot up. “I’d like to read my poem.” It was the woman who said she didn’t write, couldn’t write. In a clear, animated voice, she read her poem. The lines spoke of how her son used to tease her that she didn’t like to cook, that the only thing she could make was microwavable meals. I heard laughter. The woman laughed, too. When she finished, the whole room clapped. Her smile was wider than the Colorado sky. Two mothers in the middle row nodded at me while others hugged those seated next to them. They got it! They understood the power of written words, of shared memories. I hoped they’d incorporate writing about their children into their weekly lives and that the process would empower them. Over the next years, doors opened, and I was invited to facilitate grief-writing workshops across the country. Writing for healing, health, and hope is a message I never tire of sharing. When I hear parents read their written words or tell me how writing has been a healing balm on their journey, I’m grateful to God for this good gift that starts with one solitary word flowing into another. Alice J. Wisler is the author of six novels, one devotional (Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache), and three memorial cookbooks. She teaches writing workshops across the country. Visit her at www.alicewisler.com.
Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Kathryn Sadakierski Throughout my academic career, it seemed that everyone had different visions of what I should become. Some teachers saw me as a future doctor or lawyer; others encouraged me to pursue studies in the social sciences, education, business, or psychology; another suggested that I simply focus my energy on writing. Imagining myself following these paths, I was overwhelmed by the vast array of possibilities and variables. How would my life change if I chose one over the other? I felt torn, knowing I couldn’t do everything, that I had to define my own dream, my own way forward, amidst so many conflicting views of my calling. Having worked with young children in early childhood and elementary school settings as an assistant teacher, I’ve come to realize a vocation broader than any single career: that of a spiritual mother. There is nothing I love more than nurturing and guiding other souls, pouring myself into helping them to grow, and being present for them, sharing the insights God gives me because He knows what they need to heal. Being a spiritual mother involves being a teacher, and the most important thing I can teach is love. In fulfilling my vocation and living my life for God, I draw upon my variegated academic background and wide array of interests to discern how best to teach and nurture a love for learning, for life, and for all that God has created, in others. Beyond imparting specific skills and content knowledge, a spiritual mother fosters faith and empowers others to live it out, finding wonder and inspiration in all of the little miracles that make up daily life so that, moving forward each day, a spirit of hope can be preserved. At one preschool where I worked, by the end of the day, the 13 three-year-old students in the class were loath to wake from their naps, tired and sometimes teary. As I assembled a collection of books at the table and began to read aloud, tears evaporated, weariness forgotten. Like little listeners of the Sermon on the Mount, all of the children gradually walked up, or sat down in a chair beside me, gathering around to hear the narratives. I channeled all my dramatic skill stemming back from the illustrious days of my roles in elementary school plays (perhaps it was apropos that I’d been cast as the queen once!), bringing characters alive with inflection, connecting the stories to the interests of the students, polling them as to what they thought would happen next, pointing out the vibrant details of the illustrations in the picture books. Enraptured, smiling faces ringed the table, laughter brightened the room, and, once one story ended, I was flooded with requests to read another favorite book, turning the pages again, starting a fresh chapter. In this small way, infusing my love into sharing a story (or several), I could comfort and uplift, offering the spiritual equivalent of a hug, a warm and maternal benediction to go forth with peace. I was led to my calling by a spiritual mother herself: St. Therese of Lisieux, the Carmelite nun known for her “Little Way,” a path toward Heaven paved by a sincere heart and given through everything humbly done for the love of Christ and others. St. Therese viewed each task, no matter how seemingly menial, as an opportunity to joyfully serve God, offering everything up for His glory. Her view later inspired St. Teresa of Calcutta’s life work: to “do small things with great love.” Through each experience, small steps building up towards a larger goal over time, great things can be achieved. Just one kind act has the power to convert another soul. Similarly, starting in middle school, the experiences I had with assisting as a counselor at my church’s Bible Camps, and later with teaching children’s catechism classes, all came together to strengthen my understanding of spiritual motherhood, as I learned how one smile, one encouraging word, could make a positive difference for a child. In her autobiographical masterpiece The Story of a Soul, St. Therese teaches spiritual truths through natural symbols that readers can relate to, just as Jesus did in his parables, illustrating the story of her own soul with rich imagery that captures the many blessings God gave her throughout her short, but no less impactful, life. Specifically, St. Therese likens souls to flowers in a garden, all resplendent in their own unique patterns and colors. If the garden were lacking one type of flower, it wouldn’t be the same, since each blossom radiates its own beauty that can never be replicated. Being a spiritual mother means tending to this garden planted by God, cultivating the seeds of His love, helping others bear fruits honoring the Spirit, and reaching out to Him as they bloom. Just as flowers gravitate to the sun, through nurturing others, I strive to direct them toward the eternal light of the Son. Spiritual teachers like St. Therese have shown me through the legacies of their lives that love is the root of every vocation and makes the greatest impact. This is what allows for growth, for gardens to flourish. It’s not only about providing the necessary tools, but about applying them and always caring. When I consider the far-reaching influence of global leaders, I see my own role as quite humble in comparison. How can I make a difference in my corner of the world? But, as saints such as St. Therese and Mother Teresa have taught me, change truly does start in our own backyards. Transformation is a cumulative process. Every part of our life is used to help us realize our calling and to aid others in finding theirs. Each moment is a stepping stone, another stair that can lead us above the limitations of circumstances so that we can be united with God. God hasn’t made any mistakes, hasn’t failed to take anything into account. What we see as small is an integral part of His plan, a thread in a tapestry of interconnected souls. In God’s eyes, every step matters. Cast in this light, helping children tie their shoes and button their coats are small things done with great love, love that doesn’t need to be communicated in words. Just by being their vibrant selves, the children I work with bring me so much happiness. Similarly, Jesus’ humility, compassion, and patience awe me--I love Him for being all that He is. To be in His Presence, whether at Eucharistic Adoration or in the yard watching the light dance across the sky, is everything. To pray, to do whatever He asks, even the ostensibly small tasks of the day, is important, if only because He has asked them. Anything done for Jesus is valuable. I have come to understand more than ever why God calls everyone to be more like children, so pure-hearted and full of life. It is my goal to help them retain their luminosity, to celebrate it, and carry it well into adulthood. Children learn best when treated with love--but then we all do, regardless of age. My work in the classroom inspires me to lead with love outside of the classroom too, as I realize the incredible need for kindness everywhere in the world. I can bring what I have learned from working with children to helping each person I meet, keeping in mind that love is what all of our hearts long for. My calling involves teaching everyone who comes into my life, through the written and spoken word, about God’s love for them. Not all of us may be called to be biological mothers or fathers, but we all can be spiritual parents, bringing new souls into God’s family by shedding light in the ways unique to each of us. In comforting, healing, teaching, writing, and speaking, I aim to point back to God, to instill hope in His mercy. But whichever route I take in expressing my vocation, God’s love is at the root of each little way, each little seedling that can go so far in brightening the garden. Kathryn Sadakierski’s writing has appeared in anthologies, magazines and literary journals around the world, including Agape Review, Critical Read, Edge of Faith, Ekstasis Magazine, enLIVEN Devotionals, New Jersey English Journal, NewPages Blog, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality and the Arts, Refresh Bible Study Magazine, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing, Today’s American Catholic and elsewhere. In 2020, she was awarded the C. Warren Hollister Non-Fiction Prize. She holds a B.A. and M.S. from Bay Path University.
Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. Tim Harvey on serving people who fall through the cracks After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the essay to load. Jada Williams addressed the Gun Violence Prevention Commission in Roanoke, Virginia, with a conviction formed from tragedy and tinged with the tiredness of someone who has labored long with little to show for her work. Speaking in an unremarkable City Hall conference room, she had come to tell us the story of her teenage son, Jamal, who was the innocent victim of a gang-related shooting during the summer of 2021—a tragic situation of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The shooting left Jamal with significant, long-term disabilities. In the months following the shooting, Jada barely left Jamal’s side. Her fierce maternal care, however, came at a high price. Caring for Jamal meant quitting her job so she could be at his bedside. Quitting her job meant spending the savings intended to purchase a home for her family. Spending her savings meant being unable to afford rent, so now she and her family, including three other young children, live in the basement apartment of a church member’s home. At times, Jamal’s needs were so demanding that her other children spent the weekend with their teachers. Our commission’s agenda this particular evening left us mired in the data of gun violence, assault and murder tabulated into neat statistical reports and identified by colored dots on a map of our city. The poise and determination in Jada’s voice, however, reminded us of the deadly importance of this work. What might have been most striking about Jada’s remarks that evening was that she was not angry with us; in fact, she expressed deep gratitude for this voluntary effort. But Jada was determined to be heard. Since that night when her family’s life was changed forever, Jada has tried everything she can to get help. She has visited every social service agency in our city seeking assistance with housing, nursing care, and support for her children. In every instance, she has come away empty-handed. It turns out that our city has an abundance of agencies that exist to aid persons in all kinds of circumstances—all kinds of circumstances, it turns out, but hers. Everywhere has Jada turned, it seems that she doesn’t quite fit the mission of the agency or purpose of the charitable organization that otherwise exists to provide assistance of one kind or another. She came to the commission to insist that as we seek solutions to prevent gun violence, we not neglect to find solutions for victims of gun violence like Jamal, persons who fall through the cracks of the social safety net after news coverage moves on to the next story. Ministry beyond the congregation The Roanoke City Council appointed the Gun Violence Prevention Commission in the summer of 2019 to study the rising levels of gun violence, identify its root causes, and create meaningful opportunities for positive, non-violent living in our diverse city. Our nine-member commission is made up of social workers, mental health professionals, and clergy. Like many cities in America, incidents of gun violence in Roanoke have increased over the past 10 years. And while we are each horrified by the long litany of mass-casualty shootings plaguing our nation, the type of gun violence we are working to reduce is gang-related with a deep taproot in the soils of poverty, racism, and the so-called “urban renewal” movement of the 1960s–1980s. Many of the housing projects and neighborhoods where gun violence is concentrated are the product of this triplet of urban brokenness. I sought appointment to the Gun Violence Prevention Commission out of the commitment to peace and nonviolence I’ve learned as a lifelong member of the Church of the Brethren—one of the three “historic peace churches”—and my 18 years of pastoral leadership in Roanoke. The six Church of the Brethren congregations in our city have a long history of ministry with our entire community, an emphasis that has continued as incidents of gang-related gun violence are increasing in the high-poverty, historically Black northwest quadrant of our city. My congregation finds great spiritual value in our outreach: we tithe our congregational giving and designate much of that money to non-profit organizations that provide housing, counseling, and medical care to persons “in need.” Beyond our tithe, we regularly offer our time and talent to a non-profit organization that builds beds for children who do not have them. We eagerly support our denomination’s disaster response programs through special offerings. But two things are clear. The first is that ministries like these have a real impact and address a significant need. The second is that charitable giving has not yet touched Jada in a way that will change this new trajectory of her life. Jada’s story offers a difficult combination of two uncomfortable facts that seem to be contradictory, but actually combine in a difficult truth: the social “safety net” is only barely keeping her head above water. Yet Jada did not come to the commission to ask for assistance. Even after she learned I am a pastor, she did not ask if my congregation could help her. Jada is simultaneously appreciative of the many who have helped her and is still struggling to keep her life together. All she insists is that our commission be aware of the people who are falling through the cracks and do something about it. An uncomfortable confession As I drove home from our meeting the evening Jada spoke, it occurred to me that I have the privilege of choosing how to respond to people like her. Do persons in my White, middle-class, suburban congregation have any obligation to Jada? We share a faith, a city, and a common humanity. Each Sunday in worship, my congregation seeks reconciliation with God and one another by confessing that “we have sinned against [God] in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.” Could the struggle of Jada’s family be something we have left undone? A challenge with a familiar liturgy is that repetition leaves us deaf to our words, granting us the privilege of keeping a deeper significance of prayer—and the people and circumstances it represents—at arm’s length. What would we learn if we asked God to show us what we are leaving undone? How can we translate these words into action and, in so doing, “produce fruit in keeping with repentance” in a way that impacts a struggling neighbor? Such prayer might cause us to reconsider the meaning of “neighbor.” This is the issue at the heart of the Parable of the Good Samaritan, a story so well known that the phrase “Good Samaritan” has long been part of our secular vocabulary. Jesus tells this story in response to someone who asks, “Who is my neighbor?” In a story of persons who either do or do not assist a man badly wounded in a robbery, we find that being a neighbor means personally entering someone’s suffering. The Samaritan man who provides assistance is held up as a model because of involvement that comes at great personal and financial cost. His direct intervention sets the wounded man on the road to recovery, an intervention that comes while others were so busy with religious obligations they had no time to be curious about a man who had been left for dead. Jada’s story presents some difficult questions for us. Repenting of things left undone should not cause us to overlook the good work we are already involved in. Financially supporting those who serve our community extends the reach of our congregations and strengthens our neighborhoods in significant ways. What our repentance offers here is an invitation to go deeper, recognizing that healing the brokenness in our communities will involve a costly personal involvement. It might begin with a partnership with a congregation across town, where we show up and earn the right to hear stories like Jada’s, while learning of both the beautiful and broken places in neighborhoods we rarely visit. It might mean investing our time and talent in ministries and programs that others are sponsoring, providing both assistance and encouragement for those already working on the front lines of brokenness. It might mean having our preconceptions shattered and our hearts touched about what life really looks like for neighbors we have not yet met. We live in a time when it is popular to blame others for the things they have done. But a commitment to public ministry challenges us to consider the things we have left undone: thinking about people and situations we’ve never thought about; seeing people we prefer to overlook; challenging ourselves to invest our faith in a compassionate neighborliness that walks long, costly roads with people like Jada for whom there are no quick answers. Tim Harvey is the pastor of Oak Grove Church of the Brethren in Roanoke, Virginia.
Tim's other work on Foreshadow: The Comfort that Comes to Those Who Mourn (Non-fiction, May 2021) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. By Alina Sayre In the evangelical church where I grew up, we typically used the word calling rather than vocation, and it had a very specific meaning: the audible or near-audible voice of God that turned people into pulpit preachers or overseas missionaries. As a teenager, I dared not view myself as called because only men were allowed to be preachers in my denomination, and I had no draw to evangelize overseas. Besides, it was writing I loved. Not even the “holy” kind of writing, like Bible commentaries or Christian magazine articles—I wanted to write novels, fantasy stories, poems. However, I had no theology for this. There were no writers at my church—none who would make a public confession, at least—and we did not discuss the gifts of the Holy Spirit much. I knew only my urge, my need to shape and craft words. So I wrote fervently but guiltily, always outside of church, worrying constantly that this passion was a sin or at least a distraction from God. It did not help that my faith tradition has historically been skeptical of art and beauty. As a Protestant, I am the spiritual descendant of iconoclasts, from Calvin to Zwingli to Cromwell. Reading the Second Commandment literally—“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image”—Protestant reformers whitewashed church murals and bricked over mosaics so worshipers could better focus on hearing the word of God. The American Restorationists, my denomination’s forebears, may not have been quite so zealous for outright destruction, but they still considered visual art to be a pointless distraction from plain teaching or even a risky flirtation with idolatry. Thus, at the church where I grew up, we worshiped in a plain, practical auditorium. Instead of pews, we had folding chairs that could face in any direction, circle up for small groups, or disappear entirely for Vacation Bible School (VBS) and Super Bowl gatherings. Flat screens were framed on the front wall, large enough for easy-to-read song lyrics, but not so large as to be mistaken for a movie theater. A plain wooden cross stood in one corner. A lot of good was done in that big multipurpose room: food drives, backpack drives, Christmas gift drives, free VBS and trick or treating for kids in the community. But there was not much beauty in the space. Church funds were considered better spent on programs, and really the idea of God was all we needed anyway. All of this made me deeply suspicious of my vocational inclinations. I felt increasingly convicted that writing was something I was made to do, but how could that be from God when art was frivolous, maybe even idolatrous? Over time, a few influences shaped my theology of vocation as a writer. One was the apostle Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, in which he discusses the diversity of the Holy Spirit’s gifts to the church: “Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. For we were all baptized by one Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink. Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many." (1 Cor. 12:12–14) Unlike the simplistic limitations of calling from my upbringing, passages like this one emphasize that there is room, even necessity, for diversity in the body of Christ. Each part of the body needs the others. A body made of all hands or eyes or lungs or elbows would be ill-equipped for, or perhaps even incapable of, life. Similarly, what would become of the church’s life and witness be if all vocations were to pulpit preaching or missionary careers? Christians have left mighty impacts on the world as nurses and janitors, social workers and interior designers, engineers and fitness instructors, archivists and activists, parents and park rangers and psychologists. There is space for all people and all callings in the church body, and that includes space for art and writing. Another point of guidance came from the writers who shaped my own journey. Many of the books I read and loved in childhood, including C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia and J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, were written by professing Christians who used their imaginations fearlessly. These stories not only delighted me, but they also gave me wisdom on how to navigate some of the most difficult moments of my life. As I grew older, I was also inspired by writers of other faiths or of no formal religious affiliation, a demonstration of the Spirit moving without boundary to share beauty and inspiration with all God’s children. Realizing the impact books have had on my own journey has strengthened my conviction that words and stories are a meaningful vocation with the power to inspire, convict, comfort, delight, and direct people’s lives. Though I did not encounter Frederick Buechner until much later in my life, I gradually pieced together a theology similar to his famous quote: “Vocation is the place where our deep gladness meets the world's deep need.” I concluded that the deep gladness that resonated in me when I was writing stories or shaping sentences came from somewhere, and that somewhere was the created part of me where the Spirit was still hovering over the waters. Why would God have placed that gladness in me without intending for me to use it, particularly in a world starved for the inspiration, provocation, refreshment, curiosity, and hope that can come from art? It is a question I still cannot answer. And so I write. There are still plenty of people who view art as spiritually suspect or a second-class vocation, but pushing forward into this writing life with honesty and vulnerability has brought me great healing and freedom. My most recent publication was a book of poems entitled Fire by Night, which explores topics such as grief, loss, and spiritual deconstruction. While terrifying, writing from the deepest places of my heart liberates me to be more courageous, healthier, and freer to explore the future. It also brings me encouragement to get emails from people who say that my words have given voice to their own previously silent experiences. Perhaps that is what Buechner was getting at: when we pursue our vocations, however unconventional they may be, we nourish the needs of both the world and our own souls. I am a writer, and I am no longer afraid to call this life my vocation. I no longer see it as spiritually frivolous, distracting, or sinful—quite the contrary. This gift of the Spirit is my deep gladness and my way of, I hope, giving back to the world’s deep need. If the body of faith has many parts, perhaps I am the writer’s callus. Alina Sayre is the award-winning author of five books, a graduate student of theopoetics and an editor of Foreshadow. You can learn more about her work here, and you can find her book of poems Fire by Night here.
Alina's other work on Foreshadow:
Find more resources on writing and vocation here. Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. By Terry Jarvis  Cover art, The Long Search by Terry Jarvis (Hodder & Stoughton, 1985) A busy Saturday in Kingston, London. An unlikely place for such a drama, but even before I saw him on the bridge a sense of the unusual was with me. He was a big lad with short fair hair. With one arm he gripped the parapet of the bridge, the other was wildly waving his jacket. My eyes fixed on the terror on his face as I dashed through the traffic. Cars slowed, people paused, shading their eyes and frowning. But not going to him. Anger about their lack of caring swept over me and pushed me towards him. I was nearly there, seeing now his blue short-sleeved shirt, his wide eyes, the spectacles clutched in his hand together with his jacket, flapping, held out over the water. I saw the white knuckles on the bridge. 'Don't, please don't!' I grabbed fiercely at him and clutched the top of his arm. 'Don't jump!' He pulled away and was gone. Over the edge and down. I heard the sound of hurrying feet and felt behind me the pressing wall of the crowd. They peered into the water, curious but distant. And yet again the anger welled up inside me. I pulled off my shoes. I was aware of Sue, shocked and quiet at my side. Pulling my money from my jeans pocket I pressed it into her hand. I felt stiff and clumsy as I clambered onto the ledge. And before I could get myself ready for a dive -- I tripped. Thirty feet down, I hit the water hard and sank into a terrifying grey-green world, cold and dark. After what seemed an age as long as a nightmare I rose up again into the brightness, my lungs bursting. I caught sight of the blue shirt just a few yards away and reached out towards it. As I grabbed him he struggled, twisting round and pressing me down under the water. I fought my way up, coughing and gasping. I yelled now. 'Help, someone! Help!' Weakness was creeping through my body with cold fingers. Suddenly I saw the boat. A grey-haired man in a summer shirt and dark trousers was at the steering wheel. Behind him a thin suntanned woman lay back in a seat. I yelled again. The man glanced sideways at me and then his lips tightened and he turned away from me, gripping the wheel. 'Wait... stop! No! Help!' The words struggled from me as I thrashed about in the water. I shouted several times, but he continued to ignore me. And, amazingly, that was when his engine ran out. I heard it splutter as he tried to restart it, then all I could hear was the slap slapping of the waves against the boat as it turned slowly, drifting with the current. Drifting towards me! Now the woman stood, nervously glancing all around. She picked up a short piece of fraying orange string hanging from the bows and threw it towards me. I ignored it and struck out with the last of my strength towards the boat, grabbing the rough edge and hauling myself exhausted over the side. Then there was the canoe that drew alongside, seeming to appear from nowhere. It was being paddled by a silent young man whose calm, almost serene, face was framed with long blond hair. The shaking wet body of the boy who had jumped off the bridge was clinging to the front of the canoe. I leaned over and pulled him into the boat. The canoe went softly on its way and I held the limp body in my arms and let him cry. The rest of the incident passed in a clamour of activity, noise and excitement. The police arrived and asked lots of questions. Someone in the boatyard gave me some dry clothes. Then I was in the back of the ambulance. Vic -- that was the boy's name -- lay white and unseeing under a grey blanket. The ambulance attendant droned on and on. 'Now look at all the trouble you've gone and caused everyone... it just don't make sense. A young man too, whole of your life in front of you, why... there's just no reason... ' There was a hard edge to his voice I hated. I leaned over the blanket, trying to manage a smile, though my throat was sore and my eyes felt strange and swollen. 'Vic, you're going to be all right, don't worry now. I know how you feel. I know how it hurts. Believe me, I do... You see, I've been there myself. Six or seven times I've tried to take my own life. With drugs mostly. Overdose. But that's all in the past. I found a new life, when I discovered that Jesus Christ is a real person. Finding out about Jesus has changed my life completely.' Vic looked at me. He said nothing -- but his eyes seemed to shout for help. The ambulance man rubbed his hands together nervously. He coughed and stared at his feet. 'Well, now, this ain't somethin' I'd just tell anyone,' he began softly. His voice was quite different now, low and confidential. 'It's about the wife. She says she can't take no more. She says she's havin' a sort of breakdown. Nerves it is. She talks about doin' away with herself. I just don't know what to do.' The sadness was there again, welling up from deep inside me. I desperately wanted to help them both and felt so weak. 'O Lord, give me the words to say! Please give me the right words to say to them,' I prayed. Terry Jarvis is a wood carver and author based in Cumbria, England.
The above excerpt comes from Terry's memoir The Long Search (Hodder & Stoughton, 1985) and was published with the author's permission. You can purchase a copy of the memoir directly from Terry by emailing him at [email protected]. It costs £7.95 (including shipping; UK only).  After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google, Podomatic, Player FM and Deezer. Listen to other Forecasts here. This Forecast explores the vocation of writing and the Christian vocation more generally through a short personal essay and clips from guests discussing their vocations in various capacities. Whether writers or not, whether single or married, whether ordained or lay, through whatever situation we find ourselves in, God calls all of us to be transformed in the likeness of Christ. Will we follow? Host: Josh Seligman Outline of today's Forecast, including links:
An excerpt of 'Seeking Vocation and the Ministry of Writing' by Josh Seligman It was during my first year of university that I first heard of writing as a vocation. Pastor and writer Eugene Peterson was visiting my campus for a public interview, and towards the end, when asked what advice he’d give to people considering becoming writers, he said, ‘Do it. We need all we can get. There’s never enough storytellers. There are a lot of people who want to write stories, but they don’t want to go through the discipline, the agony, the immersion in life it requires to tell the truth with all this. No, I think writing is one of the sacred callings.' Peterson’s words inspired me. I was one of those people considering becoming a writer, and he prompted me to ask questions like What does it mean for writing to be a vocation? How does that correspond with other Christian vocations? Might this be my calling? Such questions compelled me to study and practise writing at university and beyond. At the same time, I knew that my Christian faith called me to love my neighbour and serve people’s practical needs. I got involved in various ministries at my local church, and when I was invited to serve as an intern there during my final year of university, I gratefully said yes: it seemed a way to deepen my participation there. But when I shared this news with someone who knew me well, they asked, 'Might interning compete with your writing?' Given my pursuit of writing, I understood where they were coming from. If writing were my vocation, perhaps it should have been my primary focus, even over interning at church. But I also thought that, while not my main reason, interning might provide the ‘immersion in life’ Peterson had said was required to write well. In the end, I discovered that my work as an intern and my writing would not only complement each other, but also reveal a deeper truth about vocation... Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
 After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google, Podomatic, Player FM and Deezer. Listen to other Forecasts here. Through conversations, non-fiction, poetry and music, this Forecast explores various dimensions of Christian worship. The main part of the episode is an interview with Will Shine about his studying worship, theology and the arts at Fuller Theological Seminary, California. Host: Josh Seligman Outline of today's Forecast, including links
'Two Things Have I Heard' by Josh Seligman A non-fiction piece about worship (from today's Forecast) My toes, legs, and knees were shaking. Although I was standing on warm stone, I felt the wind could have lifted my feet and poured me over the edge. In the distance, red tables and towers of stone stood crooked over the Arizonan desert. Twenty feet below, the bright river was foaming and hungry. 'Do we go head first?' I said. 'No, you’ll want to pencil it.' Dustin held out two fingers pushed together pointing down. We counted from three and jumped. Like a pencil, I thought. My feet smacked blue, and I slipped into the shadows of the Colorado River, the waters surging around me, first cold and then warm. I felt like Jonah must have felt just before being hurled out of the great fish. I pushed my arms down and surfaced, we made some kind of sound like laughter, and the wind was strong against our faces. * Ten years ago, I began attending a Quaker graduate school. I hardly knew anything about Quakerism before I studied there; my main reason for going was because they had a unique programme in writing as a form of Christian ministry. However, it was fascinating to learn about Quaker theology and especially how this played out in their worship. Quakers believe the light of God shines in all people, and if we listen with discernment, we can hear God speaking to us. Quakers listen together through a form of worship called 'open' or 'waiting worship', in which a gathering of people sits in silence waiting for the Spirit. When someone believes God is giving them a message for the group, they are encouraged to stand and speak. During my first semester, when I began sitting in waiting worship, memories of jumping into the Colorado River would come to me. Only now, the river I was looking into during worship was darkness and silence. Although I tried listening for God’s voice, I would often wonder what God sounded like. For instance, how could I distinguish between God’s words and my own thoughts? Later that semester, I read a story that helped. It’s about when the prophet Elijah heard God’s voice. Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. (1 Kings 19:11–13, NIV) Once during waiting worship, I thought I heard God speak. A paraphrase of a verse from Psalm 62 swirled in my mind: 'One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: That you, O Lord, are strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving.' Is this God? I wondered. Should I stand and speak this? I reasoned that among the three others in the room, probably none of them needed to hear it. During my inner wrestling, someone walked out of the room, and then the prompting left me. I felt like Jonah might have felt when he was swallowed by the great fish. * In the ten years since then, I’ve participated in a variety of other forms of worship. I now worship regularly with Anglicans and Eastern Orthodox Christians. I’m thankful for what I experienced among Quakers of contemplation and silence – and I no longer have flashbacks in the middle of services of cliff-jumping into rivers. But if I did, I imagine I would recall the events surrounding the second time I ever cliff-jumped. It was the summer after visiting the Colorado River. I was in Kansas celebrating a wedding, and for the bachelor party, about eleven of us drove to Two Buttes, Colorado, where apparently we were going to jump off a cliff. 'There's different ledges', said Erik as he drove a carful of us between corn fields into the sunset. 'You can jump it from thirty feet, forty feet, or even sixty feet. But we'll only jump from forty feet.' Someone asked about the possibility of rocks. 'An underwater current connects the lagoon to the reservoir, so there’s no bottom', Erik said. Tall trees loomed over the campground. At the end, shadowed by cliffs, black ripples shimmered beneath a large moon. One by one, the guys swam to the other side, where they heaved themselves onto a bank, climbed a cliff, and jumped into the darkness. I couldn’t see them; I could only hear feet scraping dirt, a stretch of silence, and then a deep splash. Afterwards they yelped to let us know they made it. Along with a few others, I didn’t jump the cliff that night (I did the next morning, though). One guy’s ankle was sprained, making it risky. Another said, 'There’s no way I’m jumping off that.' As Quakers say, Friend spoke my mind. When we returned to the campground, Erik invited us to climb the nearby Two Buttes. We all drove a few miles away and parked beside a field of shrubs and rocks. Two silhouettes of stony, sandy pyramids rose skyward. We hiked around cacti and clambered over boulders. When we reached the top, we each found a spot on which to rest. Some guys shouted. The land stretched before us like the ocean. We could barely see our cars parked below, beside the wiry road. Beyond them, red lights from steel towers pulsed. Up there, the wind was almost as strong as water. At one point, I stood with my arms sticking out, leaning into the wind. Then for a few moments, we sat and stood, facing the moon and wind in silence. Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
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