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News & Reflections from our Shared Journey
Throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, New College Berkeley spiritual directors have met with people in small, prayerful groups by Zoom. We’ve witnessed the stresses and the opportunities of this strange, isolated time; a time of great loss for many people, yet also a time of discovering novel ways of gathering together and orienting ourselves toward God.
After being closed since the start of the pandemic, my church opened for in-person worship in July. What a blessing this has been. For those who can attend in-person, we again experience the live, physical presence of fellowship and community with our neighbors. As one, we pray, confess and receive Communion, and together we dance and sing songs of praise to our Creator God. There is an immediacy with the preached Word and testimonies heard in real time.
People keep telling me this is a “murky season” spiritually. We grope for clarity, for hope, for the Light shining in the darkness. During this long pandemic season, so fraught with social unrest and losses of all kinds, I’ve been amazed that contemplative time with other people—over the phone and by Zoom—have been rich despite physical absence. You may have discovered this, too. Now that we’re venturing out from quarantine, we do so with caution and also with hope of holding onto the gifts of the pandemic.
In the Fall of 2019 just before the pandemic, Pastor Gary VanderPol, of Church Without Walls, Berkeley, where I serve as a spiritual director, introduced the image of the redwood tree in a sermon series titled, “From Survival to Revival.” Redwood trees, the tallest, oldest and most majestic of trees, have very shallow roots. The redwood tree maintains its stability by intertwining its roots with other redwood trees. Although the redwood tree looks tall and separate above ground, it stands strongest when connected to other redwood trees via this underground network of roots. Likewise, Christians, though they may be strong in their individual faiths, are most stable when closely connected to other Christians.
Even as a good Protestant girl, I knew a little of St. Ignatius and had participated in some contemplative practices (Lectio Divina, centering payer, and the practice of silence), though not with great regularity. But the practice of the Ignatian Exercises was unknown to me. When the option came up in the midst of the COVID lock-down, my husband was quick to jump on joining in. So, we did.
I have lived in the northwest corner of Arkansas for fifteen years now, and I am still waiting to find out what a “typical winter” is. We’ve had a record-breaking ice storm, dumps of snow, and days warm enough to putter around the garden without a sweater. One thing we can rely on are the shorter days and long, cozy evenings. For a bedtime story this January, I plucked The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett from my big kids’ bookshelf of classic paperbacks to read to my littlest. Her name is Whimsy and she is six years old. As her name indicates, she is a pleasant surprise, a decade younger than her three older siblings. In this strange pandemic year, instead of attending Kindergarten, she has been at home, lonely, and isolated from the friends she made in preschool.
Written by Dr. Ruth Padilla DeBorst, June 19, 2018 [1]
Ruth Padilla DeBorst, PhD, is the speaker for the 3rd Annual Berkeley Palmer Lecture. Dr. DeBorst is a well-known Latin American theologian who has been involved in leadership development and theological education for several decades. She passionately pursues ecological justice, authentic community, and participative, contextual forms of theological education. Dr. Padilla DeBorst is currently a visiting faculty at Regent College in Vancouver, B.C., Canada.
Trade is going strong. And it is horrendously shameful and painful. Because what is being exchanged across the US border is not really a what but a who. Many, many “whos.”
I’ve been having quite a time with The Good Samaritan. By “quite a time,” I mean I’ve been working for years on understanding how it works – linguistically, cognitively, and as a narrative. I want to understand it in its original context, and I want to think carefully about its implications for early Christian ethics and for contemporary social ethics. But a colleague recently opined that if she were to choose one New Testament parable which utterly fails to communicate its point to modern readers, it would be this one.
How could she say that? Well, I’ll tell you. And then I want to tell you why I both agree and disagree with that assessment. But first, please pause and read the passage in Luke.
This February, less than three weeks after what is possibly the most fraught and fought-over inauguration in our national history, I’ll be teaching a short course on “Approaches to Spiritual Autobiography.” In light of recent disturbances in public life and in the midst of calls to active, organized response, such self-reflection might seem to some a bit untimely—perhaps a bit too inwardly focused when so many feel we’re at a political turning point or tipping point.
January—the new year. The time of Epiphany—discovery and illumination. So we hope. We hope, too, for mass immunizations against the novel coronavirus and for a peaceful transfer of power in the United States. Every day I feel the intense longing for good news.
We’ve yearned toward the Holy One throughout the season of Advent, and in this new year the adventure continues. In our COVID-19 moment I’m reflecting on the fact that the word “adventure” underwent some evolution in its meaning many centuries ago. In 1200 it referred to that which happens by chance, with the possibility of wonder, miracle, and marvelous happenings. Then disaster struck and the word’s sense changed to denote risk and danger. In 1347 the Black Death struck Europe, and over the course of four years more than 20 million lives were lost on the continent, about one-third of the population. Everyone suffered. It’s no surprise that the understandings of common words would shift in grim ways. Over the course of the last year, I’ve developed an aversion reaction to the word “unprecedented.”
Advent, like Lent, is a speed bump in the galloping year, slowing us down, and waking us to deep realities. And how we need Advent in the blur of the pandemic and the rush of Yuletide. Advent and Lent are also confessional seasons and, in effect, extended Sabbaths. They exist in Kairos time, the time of reflection, of prayer, of communion.
It’s, as it were, folded time. We remember other Advents in our lives as though through a wormhole in time, and they seem near as we enter into the familiar patterns of Advent worship, even in this strange, isolated year. Perhaps especially in this particular year, we also anticipate future Advent seasons. Times of gathering together again in worship, retreat, caroling, and feasting.
All Jesus did that day was tell stories––a long storytelling afternoon. His storytelling fulfilled the prophecy: I will open my mouth and tell stories; I will bring out into the open things hidden since the world’s first day. Matthew 13:34-35; MSG
Dear friends,
When I was a child, my great-aunt Hat would gather her grand-nieces and grand- nephews around her and recite a looping tale. Brown eyes wide open and her expression mock-somber, she would recite:
High in the windy hills of Italy lived a little band of bandits.
One night as the lightning flashed and the thunder roared and the rain came down in torrents, the Captain turned to his lieutenant and said, “Sandy, give us a story,” which he did in the following manner.
“High in the windy hills of Italy lived a little band of bandits. One night as the lightning flashed….”
We squealed with delight at the absurdity, even the youngest among us knowing that—silly, Aunt Hat!—stories ought not to loop like that.
Stories need to go somewhere.
Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you. Discipline yourselves, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in your faith, for you know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering. And after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you. To him be the power forever and ever. Amen. 1 Peter 5: 6-11
The Lord protects the resident alien,
comes to the aid of the orphan and the widow,
but thwarts the way of the wicked. Ps. 146:9 (NABRE)
Beloved, remember you don’t belong in this world. You are resident aliens living in exile, so resist those desires of the flesh that battle against the soul. 1 Peter 2:11 (VOICE)
Throughout this attenuated pandemic season, the words “resident alien” have reverberated in my mind, and I’ve sought reassurance in how God views people in such straits as beloved. We are in a strange time and place, and we are loved.
What is sacred? Christian artistic pursuits, for almost 2000 years, have been an attempt to articulate our “quest for the sacred”.
In fact, we see artistic questing for the sacred expressed throughout human history. In the caves of Altamira Spain, dated over 35,000 years ago, we see charcoal and ochre images of human hands and animals. The Paleolithic people documented their experience with each other and nature. We humans have always tried to express our search for existential meaning and identity.