MONDAY MORNING BLOG

Chapter 15

And when they could not get near Jesus because of the crowd, they broke in through the roof above him, and when they had made an opening, they let down the man on the mat. Mark 2.4

It’s Monday. You probably weren’t expecting to start the week with a story about a chainsaw and a church—but here we are – not the typical Easter week story … or maybe it is?

On March 19, 2025, as reported by WDR, a man in Hagen, Germany, broke into a Greek Orthodox church—not by picking a lock, but by cutting through a side door with a chainsaw. No metaphor here—this really happened. A woman who entered the church noticed the damage and, alarmed, fled in fear, immediately calling the police. Witnesses described a man in bright forestry gear, chainsaw in hand, casually walking away from the scene. Nothing was stolen—just a jagged hole left in the wall of a sacred space, followed by an eerie silence.

It reminded me of two stories in the Bible—one of an unexpected entrance into holy ground, and the other of an unexpected exit from it.

In Mark 2, four friends can’t get into a crowded house where Jesus is preaching. So they do something wild: they climb up, tear open the roof, and lower a paralyzed man on the mat into the room—right in front of Jesus. And what does Jesus do? He honors their boldness. He heals.

Easter up ahead, and Easter is, at its core, an intrusion into the impossible.
The stone was rolled away. The tomb—broken open. And what did they find?

Nothing.
Jesus wasn’t there.

And maybe that’s the real twist of this whole thing.

The man in Hagen broke into a church. Maybe looking for something. Maybe nothing. But like the women at the tomb, he found emptiness. No Jesus, no treasure, just silence.

The church was empty because maybe—just maybe—we sometimes look for God in places He’s already moved beyond or was he in the silence after all the noise of the chainsaw?

We build structures, routines, expectations. But Jesus? He’s always breaking out of the boxes we try to keep Him in. The resurrection wasn’t just a return to life—it was a declaration that nothing, not even death, can contain Him.

So maybe this chainsaw story, bizarre as it is, becomes a strange sort of Easter parable.

Are we still trying to break into the sacred to find Jesus when, like the empty tomb, He’s already gone ahead of us? Or maybe—just maybe—He’s waiting for us to break in again: not with noise and force, but in silence, and to find Him dressed in new clothes, in unexpected places.

Maybe faith isn’t about where we find Him, but how far we’re willing to go. Through the roof, out of the tomb or into the sanctuary by any way we must, even through the side.

Wishing the courage to break through barriers and discover the sacred in unexpected places.

Philemon

Chapter 14

“Instead, they will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.” Isaiah 61:3 (NIV)

Spring creeps in like a whisper—days grow longer, light lingers on soil that’s just beginning to thaw. Gardeners rejoice, but with the flowers come the thorns. Not just the literal kind, though those are plenty. We’re talking about the invasive, uninvited, stubborn sort—plants like the False Mimosa, imported from Australia, now thriving across Switzerland’s Ticino region. With its bright yellow clusters, it’s beautiful—until it takes over.

The Bible’s thorns and thistles have always had double meaning. They first appear in Genesis as symbols of the curse: “Cursed is the ground because of you… It will produce thorns and thistles” (Gen. 3:17–18). A symbol of sin, suffering, the burden of toil. But spend time in the garden, and you’ll realize: these aren’t just metaphors. They’re a spiritual discipline in themselves.

Author Virginia Stem Owens once mused that weeding was her way of sharing space with Adam. “We inhabit the same spiritual space,” she wrote. Anyone who’s knelt in the dirt, fingers aching from tearing Bermuda grass out of strawberries, knows this truth intimately. Christ’s parables about the wheat and the tares come alive with every tug and pull.

Saint Augustine saw even weeds as part of God’s good creation, a paradoxical gift meant to discipline us. Charles Spurgeon, in an 1893 sermon, went further: weeds were God’s mercy. The Fall could have been worse. Rather than striking Adam, the curse glanced off and hit the ground. A metaphorical kindness.

Weeds, Spurgeon said, are not only in our gardens but everywhere: in social systems, in our families, in ourselves. They grow without our invitation. Even our best intentions can’t stop them. “All the prudence and care, ay, and all the prayer and faith… will not keep you clear of these thorns and thistles.”

The biblical imagery of weeds is rich and layered. In Micah, the wicked are likened to briers. In Ezekiel, rebellious people are thorns. Jesus compared false prophets to thistles. And when He explained the parable of the sower, He said thorns represent “the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth.” Even the crown Christ bore was woven of thorns—a physical manifestation of sin’s curse placed on the Redeemer’s head.

But here’s a twist. While Scripture teaches us to see thorns as sin’s offspring, history—and horticulture—show us that sometimes, the thorny invader isn’t our fault. Or is it?

The idea of “invasive species” is newer than we think. The phrase may have appeared first in a British colonial journal in 1891. Yet long before that, explorers like Charles Darwin were encountering thickets of invasive thistle and artichoke in Argentina so dense “nothing else can now live.” These were seeds that crossed oceans without anyone’s blessing.

Today, Europe hosts over 7000 non-native species. Not all are evil. But when they start to disrupt ecosystems, spread wildly, or harm native life, we call them invasive. The line between “weed” and “wonder” is thin. A plant in the wrong place, even if beautiful, can be destructive.

What’s true in botany is true in theology?

Some modern voices, l, have weaponized the language of weeds and invasions, applying it to immigration and moral panic. The metaphor turned dangerous casting human beings, often fleeing hardship, as invaders.

But Scripture doesn’t play that game. God warns Cain about sin “crouching at your door”—not in someone else, but in his own heart. Jesus tells the Pharisees that evil comes not from outside but from within. Spurgeon urged his listeners to look for the thistles in their own hearts, not someone else’s backyard. Many of these species arrived through no evil intent. One came as packing material. Others were ornamental imports. No villainous gardener plotted their spread. But now, we fight them all the same.

Matthew Henry, a prominent 18th-century commentator, warned against exotic plants as signs of vanity. He saw Israel’s “imported vines” as spiritual compromise—a desire to be like other nations. To him, foreign flora mirrored foreign desires.

But not all theologians feared variety. Martin Luther, in contrast, requested “many different varieties” of seeds for his garden. The issue isn’t difference—it’s displacement. It’s not that foreign things are bad, but that in uprooting the good gifts we’ve been given, we often make a mess.

Botanist Jim Varick, stewarding 60 forested, puts it more gently. He and his wife have spent two decades battling garlic mustard and stilt grass. They aren’t trying to save the world. Just restore what God has entrusted to them. And when they cleared out bush honeysuckle, wildflowers bloomed again.

We pull weeds not because we expect a weed-free world, but because we were made to tend the garden. Christ’s parable reminds us that the weeds will be sorted later—our job, in the meantime, is to be wheat.

Invasive plants aren’t a foreign army at the gate. It’s a seed already in the soil. But even in a cursed ground, something beautiful can grow. That’s the hope of spring. That’s the promise of the gospel.

So this year, as you tug at thistles, remember: it’s not just gardening. It’s spiritual formation. And every weed pulled is one more reminder of the work still to be done—in the world, and in our hearts.

Philemon

Adapted from the original by Andy Olsen

Chapter 13

This quote comes from Friedrich Rückert’s poem; “God’s Light Has Come into the World’s Night”. The full poem reads:

“In bright countenances the power of the Lord is made known,
And he who cannot shine in the night is not a star.”

Into the world’s night has God’s own light descended,
Into the world’s night has God’s own light descended;
Whereas we have awakened, and slumber is not extended.

We slumber not extended in the world’s benumbing sleep,
But gaze, awake in light, on night’s dark dread, no sorrow steep.

Where is the night’s dark dread? By light it is subdued;
We gaze with trustful heart into the light, by light imbued.

That we are by the light imbued, the light which we obey,
We show it to the thralls of night upon our countenance, we say.

In radiant countenance is made the Lord’s strength known,
And who within the night can shed no light, is no true star alone.

A translation to French

Dans la nuit du monde, la propre lumière de Dieu est descendue,
Dans la nuit du monde, la propre lumière de Dieu est descendue ;

Alors que nous nous sommes éveillés, et le sommeil n’est plus prolongé.
Nous ne dormons plus dans le sommeil engourdissant du monde,

Mais contemplons, éveillés dans la lumière, la sombre terreur de la nuit, sans chagrin profond.

Où est la sombre terreur de la nuit ? Par la lumière elle est soumise ;
Nous contemplons d’un cœur confiant la lumière, par la lumière imprégnés.

Que nous soyons par la lumière imprégnés, la lumière à laquelle nous obéissons,
Nous le montrons aux esclaves de la nuit sur notre visage, disons-nous.

Dans un visage radieux, la force du Seigneur est révélée,
Et celui qui dans la nuit ne peut projeter aucune lumière, n’est pas une véritable étoile, seul.

The original peom in German by Friedrich Rückert (1788–1866)

279. Gekommen in die Nacht der Welt iſt Gottes Licht Gekommen in die Nacht der Welt iſt Gottes Licht; Wir ſind daran erwacht, und ſchlummern fuͤrder nicht.

Wir ſchlummern fuͤrder nicht den Weltbetaͤubungſchlummer, Wir blicken, wach im Licht, aufs Nachtgraun ohne Kummer.

Wo iſt der Naͤchte Graun? es iſt vom Licht bezwungen; Wir blicken mit Vertraun ins Licht, vom Licht durchdrungen.

Daß wir durchdrungen ſind vom Lichte, dem wir dienen, Wir zeigens dem Geſind der Nacht in unſern Mienen.

In hellen Mienen macht ſich kund die Kraft des Herrn, Und wer nicht in der Nacht kann leuchten, iſt kein Stern.

Philemon

Chapter 12

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” — Matthew 5:9 (NIV)

“Amid the war, Ukrainian seminarians have turned from abstract Western theology to a more visceral, prophetic tradition that reflects their collective trauma and quest for peace, emphasizing God’s call for directness, justice, and reconciliation over polished theological concepts.” J. Searle

“Being a wise peacemaker today requires understanding that war is not only a political issue but a spiritual one, revealing the influence of fallen powers that promote violence and false ideologies. These powers often distort truth to justify atrocities, as seen in the Russian propaganda portraying the mass killing of Ukrainians as a holy war defending ‘Christian values.'” – J. Searle

The Russo-Ukrainian war reminds us that the world today is not as God intended it to be. God calls us to actively participate in his reconciliatory work, but what does this look like in the face of aggression? A few more thoughts by Dr Joshua Searle

“He who saves one life saves the world entire.”

“We cannot walk in your shoes, but we can do as Jesus did and wash your feet.”

In 2024, over 40 countries were entrenched in conflict, with the five most affected being Ukraine (49,881 casualties), Palestine (22,386), Myanmar (13,049), Sudan (9,201), and Ethiopia (7,846), all of which are suffering devastating loss of life and destruction (Source: World Population Review).

The whole article reflects on the challenges of following Christ in a time of war, highlighting the importance of peace, even amidst aggression.bit.ly/4ioQja7

• The author, Joshua Searle, married a Ukrainian woman and has deep ties to Ukraine.
• He lived and worked as a missionary at Donetsk Christian University, which was later seized and militarized by Russian forces in 2014.
• After witnessing the devastation, Joshua and his wife founded Dnipro Hope Mission (DHM) in 2016 to support displaced Ukrainians, now helping over 120,000 people annually.
• DHM delivers medicine, food, water, and pastoral care to war victims and frontline soldiers.
• As a theological educator, Joshua observed that traditional Western theology often feels disconnected from Ukraine’s suffering.
• Ukrainian pastors are turning to prophetic, practical theology inspired by Old Testament prophets, focusing on justice, truth, and peace amid war.
• War is not only political but also a spiritual problem, rooted in sin and human brokenness (Ephesians 6:12).
• Russian propaganda portrays the war as a holy cause, but Christians must unmask lies and seek truth.
• Lasting peace requires justice, sovereignty for Ukraine, and confronting evil — not appeasing aggression.
• Even traditionally pacifist Christians, like a Mennonite chaplain, now wrestle with the need for self-defense, saying, “Putin has cured me of my pacifism.”
• Loving the enemy means preventing them from doing more evil.
• Christians are called to be peacemakers, rooted in justice, truth, and compassion.
• Practical responses include humanitarian aid, pastoral care, and theological education grounded in real suffering.
• True reconciliation is impossible without acknowledgment of wrongdoing and repentance.
• The gospel of peace offers hope for personal and communal healing, envisioning a future of justice, dignity, and restored community.
  
  “The Old Testament prophets, as foretold by Isaiah, envisioned a peaceable kingdom of justice and harmony, which through Christ’s redemptive work, is revealed as a kingdom of shalom—an active state of wholeness, healing, and peace in a broken world.”
  
  “Jesus’ peace, as a gift of the Spirit, is distinct from worldly peace; it is not achieved through violence or political means, but through the infusion of God’s kingdom into the world.”

“I strive to promote justice and peace in my life and ministry, embodying Christlike qualities like humility and gentleness, even though I often fall short.”

May we be peacemakers, not through passive acceptance of injustice, but through active, courageous efforts to confront evil, promote justice, and extend God’s peace to a broken world. As we do, we bear witness to the hope of a future where “the wolf will live with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the goat” (Isaiah 11:6).

Philemon

An Upside Down Kingdom

Chapter 11 

In Matthew 20, Jesus tells the story of a landowner hiring workers for his vineyard. Some start at dawn, others at noon, some at 3 p.m., and some at 5 p.m. — yet all receive the same wage. When those who worked all day complain, the landowner answers, “Friend, I am not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you.” (Matthew 20:13-14).

This is a picture of God’s Kingdom, which does not operate according to human logic of earning and deserving, but according to grace and generosity. Grace is not about fairness as we understand it — it’s about God’s freedom to give generously. Those who worked all day grumble because they expected more, but the landowner reminds them that he has kept his promise and simply chosen to be generous to others.

In God’s eyes, both the “early workers” — those who have served Him all their life — and the “latecomers” — those who turn to Him at the last moment — are equally loved and fully rewarded. Just like in the parable of the Prodigal Son, God welcomes all with open arms, not because of what they’ve done, but because of who He is.

Jesus ends the parable with a powerful warning: “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” (Matthew 20:16). It is a call to humility, to let go of pride, and to stop comparing ourselves to others. Humility means recognizing that everything we have — including salvation — is a gift from God.

What does this upside-down kingdom look like today? It means that people who come to faith late in life are just as loved and saved as those who have believed since childhood. It means that those who feel “unworthy” or “too late” to turn to God can know that His grace is still for them. God’s Kingdom turns human ideas of justice and merit upside down. The last become first, not because they “deserve it,” but because God is radically generous.

So whether you have been working in the vineyard all day, or you just arrived at the last hour, the reward of God’s love is the same — eternal life, forgiveness, and belonging. Let us rejoice in His generosity and humbly remember that it is grace — and grace alone — that brings us home.

“The last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Wishing you a good day! 

Philemon

Chapter 10

Esther “Etty” Hillesum (15 January 1914 – 30 November 1943) was a Dutch Jewish author of confessional letters and diaries which describe both her religious awakening and the persecutions of Jewish people in Amsterdam during the German occupation.

A few quotes or passages;

26 August, Tuesday evening. There is a really deep well inside me. And in it dwells God. Sometimes I am there, too. But more often stones and grit block the well, and God is buried beneath. Then He must be dug out again. I imagine that there are people who pray with their eyes turned heavenward. They seek God outside themselves. And there are those who bow their head and bury it in their hands. I think that these seek God inside.

Ultimately, we have just one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves, more and more peace, and to reflect it toward others. And the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will also be in our troubled world.

I feel as if I were the guardian of a precious slice of life, with all the responsibility that entails. There are moments when I feel like giving up or giving in, but I soon rally again and do my duty as I see it: to keep the spark of life inside me ablaze.

Each of us must turn inward and destroy in himself all that he thinks he ought to destroy in others.

This day will probably be no heavier than any other day, but my strength to bear it is not so
great. And then there is the anxiety and the burden of wondering what this summons to S. from Lippmann and Rosenthal really means. But Lord, help me not to waste a drop of my
energy on fear and anxiety, but grant me all the resilience I need to bear this day.

You have made me so rich, oh God, please let me share out your beauty with open hands. My life has become an uninterrupted dialogue with You, oh God, one great dialogue.

Things come and go in a deeper rhythm, and people must be taught to listen; it is the most important thing we have to learn in this life. I am not challenging You, oh God, my life is one
great dialogue with You. I may never become the great artist I would really like to be, but I am already secure in You, God.

Everything is a growing process. And in between, emotions and sensations that strike you like lightning. But still the most important thing is the organic process of growing.

I no longer believe that we can change anything in the world until we have first changed ourselves.

Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths.

Sunday Morning Prayer – Etty Hillesum, 12.07.1942
I shall promise You one thing, God, just one very small thing. I shall never burden my today with cares about my tomorrow, although that takes some practice. Each day is sufficient unto itself. I shall try to help You, God, to stop my strength ebbing away, though I cannot vouch for it in advance.

Hillesum’s words, written written by a victim of a genocide in which numerous self-identified Christians participated, express a central aspect of what Christian spirituality ought to be: through prayer and a life of following Jesus, we might “give space” to God, to borrow a phrase from Rowan Williams. In ourselves and in the world we are creating “a habitation for God.”

Etty Hillesum died in Auschwitz on 30 November 1 943.

My life has become an uninterrupted dialogue with You, oh God, one great dialogue.

Philemon

Chapter 9

“But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” – Isaiah 40:31

Standing in line is a universal experience, but let’s be honest—whether you’re queuing at the municipal office, or trying to board a train, there’s always that one person who thinks the rules don’t apply to them. They slither in, trying to cut the line, and suddenly, you’re channeling your inner serpent, hissing under your breath, “Excuse me, I might just get hiss-terical!”

While in Bern, the evening commute on the BLS double-decker trains offers a delightful—if chaotic—change of rhythm. Forget orderly lines; here, it’s a full-blown free-for-all. Passengers push, shove, and squeeze through the wide doors as if they’re in a high-stakes race for the last seat, particularly upstairs. Some might find this spectacle hiss-terical (pun very much intended), but in Bern, it’s just part of the evening’s routine.

But let’s take a step back and consider the serpentine nature of it all. In the Old Testament, the serpent is the ultimate trickster—crafty, slippery, and downright deceptive. tempting Eve with forbidden fruit and earning itself a lifetime of belly-crawling and dust-eating as punishment. Yet, even in its downfall, the serpent teaches us a lesson: be wise, but don’t lose your innocence. As Jesus famously told His disciples, “Be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves.”

Now, let’s talk about the word itself. In German, the word for the queue, “Schlange,” means both “snake” and “line.” It’s a linguistic double that perfectly captures the essence of waiting: slow, winding, and occasionally venomous. But there’s no such overlap in English, French, or Italian. Imagine telling a British friend, “We were in a long ‘snake’ waiting for the evening train home at the station in Bern.” They’d probably give you a puzzled look and say, “You mean that’s how you guys feel when you stand in a queue?”

Speaking of queues, I recently stumbled upon a delightful passage about the cultural nuances of standing in line. It pointed out that in Czech, “stát ve frontě” (to stand in line) evokes images of a disciplined battle formation. Meanwhile, the German “Schlange” feels more like an invitation to push, shove, and slither your way to the front. It’s a subtle difference, but one that speaks volumes about our collective patience—or lack thereof.

Over the years, I’ve learned to embrace the chaos. Whether at the supermarket, town departments, or the train station, I’ve accepted that I’ll inevitably end up in the slowest-moving line. Instead of stressing, I’ve adopted a cheerful fatalism. I’ve come to see waiting as a metaphor for life itself. The longer the line, the more time I have to reflect, people-watch, or mutter an iconic phrase under my breath: “Wos stengans do olle on, die Trottln?” (“What are all these fools standing around for?”)

So, the next time you find yourself in a hiss-terical situation—whether it’s a serpentine queue, a chaotic train platform remember: life is a waiting game. And sometimes, the best thing you can do is channel your inner serpent, stay wise, and maybe hiss a little. After all, we’re all just global fools trying to navigate this winding, unpredictable line called existence.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” – Psalm 27:14

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just have a train to catch. Wish me luck so I have no need to get hysterical and leave out the hiss-terical feeling. (big smile)

Wishing a great start to this new week!
Philemon

Chapter 8

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
– Micah 6:8 (NIV)

I’m weary of the hollow crowns, the masks they wear,
The weight of greed that chokes the air.
They claim the earth, yet leave it bare,
A fractured world beyond repair.

They preach of peace, yet sow the flame,
Divide the many, rule the game.
Their words are sweet, their hearts are stone,
They build their thrones on blood and bone.

But the Kingdom of God is not a destination—
It’s a disruption, a holy invasion.
Not a far-off dream or a distant shore,
But a reality breaking through the here and now’s core.

It’s a mustard seed, small yet uncontained,
A hidden treasure, a pearl unchained.
It’s yeast in dough, a quiet, rising force,
A net full of fish, gathering all, of course.

It’s a king forgiving a debt too vast to pay,
A vineyard owner who levels the way.
It’s a father running, arms open wide,
To welcome the lost, the broken, the denied.

The Kingdom isn’t a place we escape to someday—
It’s a revolution unfolding today.
It’s justice rising, mercy’s embrace,
A humble walk with God, full of grace.

They hoard the wealth, they twist the laws,
They smile for cameras, but sharpen their claws.
Yet the Kingdom whispers, “This is not the end,”
For the tyrants’ reign will break and bend.

The tides will turn, the walls will fall,
The Kingdom’s call will reach us all.
For every lie, a truth will rise,
And every shadow meets the skies.

The dawn will break, the world will wake,
The roots of change no hand can shake.
For power fades, but hope remains—
A world reborn from ash and chains.

The Kingdom is here, not in some distant sphere,
It’s in the acts of justice, the love we hold dear.
It’s in the mustard seed, the yeast, the pearl,
In the hands of the faithful, reshaping the world.

Wishing you a good start in all your disruption!
Philemon

Chapter 7

For some, the “right season” has arrived—a bit of a pun, actually—bringing with it the promise of growth, improvement, and hope. For others, it’s a time of holding on, waiting for the storm to pass, and longing for a season of relief. Life, after all, is filled with seasons: times of abundance and times of challenge. The Bible, in its poetic beauty, speaks profoundly about these changing seasons.

One of the most striking metaphors in Scripture is the transition from winter to spring. It’s a powerful reminder that seasons of hardship and waiting can give way to renewal and new beginnings. In Song of Solomon 2:11-12, we read:

“See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land.”
Here, winter symbolizes hardship, while spring heralds a time of hope. This passage echoes the faithfulness of God to bring new life after difficult times.

Similarly, in Genesis 8:22, God reassures Noah that as long as the earth endures, the cycle of seasons will continue:
“As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.”
This verse is not only a promise of natural order but also a reminder that change—whether for good or for ill—is part of God’s design for our lives.

The book of Ecclesiastes offers a profound reflection on life’s changing seasons:
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.”
This timeless wisdom invites us to embrace the ebb and flow of life, trusting that each season has its purpose. ( a bit simply said … sure doesn’t always feel like this)

In Hosea 6:3, we are reminded that God’s presence is like the life-giving rains:
“Let us acknowledge the Lord; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.”
After the barrenness of winter, the rains come to restore and refresh. It’s a vivid picture of how God can bring revival to our lives after seasons of drought and dryness.

And in Isaiah 43:19, we hear a powerful declaration:
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

The traditional response to such words of encouragement often leans toward quiet acceptance—acknowledging that, yes, change is inevitable, and that God is indeed at work behind the scenes … all for His perfect plan?

But what if the change isn’t simply the end of a season? What if the transition is a divine invitation to surrender?

It is in the depths of winter that we are most often pruned, tested, and refined—stripped of what is no longer necessary. Winter’s purpose teaches us the value of stillness and dormancy. In the barren cold, growth seems to cease, but in the earth is silently nurturing the seeds of transformation beneath the surface.

Perhaps the winter itself is as essential as the growth that might follow.

Wishing you a great winter day!
Philemon

Chapter 6

taking sacred or revered texts (like the Beatitudes) and crafting their ironic, inverted opposites for provocative effect—is often called “subversive inversion” or “ironic reversal” specifically targeting religious or moral axioms to critique hypocrisy, cultural norms, or spiritual complacency.

The Beatitudes (Matt. 5:3-10) are special fruit, are they not? A spectacular benefit to those who hunger and thirst after extra layers of truth about the way things are in the kingdom of God. Perplexing and paradoxical, they rarely fail to offer something new. What would happen, I wondered, if one were to consider their diametrical opposite? An Interesting thought.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are the publicly strong and mighty in spirit, for they shall be able to enjoy making other believers feel like failures and doubt they were ever really Christians at all.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are those who have no sympathy, empathy or anything else ending with the same three letters, after all sadness is surely a sign of weakness, for they won’t need comforting, seeing as they couldn’t care less about anybody else.

Blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who are up themselves, for they shall be listened to and have their ideas acted on, even when the things the meek suggested make much more sense, but no one heard what they said because the up-themselves were so loud and mouthy.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for unrighteousness, for they shall be free to do all sorts of horrible things, and if the whole God/heaven thing turns out to be a load of rubbish, it won’t really matter will it?

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are those who think forgiveness is soft and weak, for they shall be correct until the very moment when they wish they were not.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are those who nurse and feed on nasty, dismal things inside them, for they are very unlikely to want to see God anyway.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God

Blessed are those who cause war and misery all over the world, and thrice blessed are those who create conflict in places where there wasn’t any until they turned up, for they shall be able to have a laugh at everyone’s else’s expense, and be embarrassed by being called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who change sides when things get too hot for comfort, for there are limits, you know, even in the kingdom of heaven – surely?

Adrian Plass, Still Crazy 2022

Adrian Plass wields satire like a surgeon’s blade. What stings most is the recognition: these inverted beatitudes aren’t parody, in too many circles. Yet within the critique pulses hope—a reminder that the Kingdom’s radical inversion still beckons, if we dare to turn.

Wishing you a week of sacred dissonance. Walk gently into this week, but carry that disruptive grace.

Philemon