Seeking Authentic Voice

I have been intrigued by the news this week about a tiny piece of papyrus, suggesting that Jesus had a wife. Everyone is commenting on it. Is it real? Is it a forgery? Thankfully I found a link on Facebook to a webinar hosted by two New Testament Scholars at General Theological Seminary in New York City which put the debate into perspective for me.   Professors Dierdre Good and Katherine Shaner move through the aspects of the papyrus with great intentionality using established methodology to determine the authenticity of ancient manuscripts. For example some of the indicators that authenticate this document as a late 4 th century piece of Coptic/Egyptian Christian writing are: the way the papyrus is made, the torn edges of the document, the decay, holes and grain of the papyrus,   the ink, and the style of the Coptic language used. Francis Watson, Professor of Theology and Religion at Durham University in the UK has stated that this document is a forgery. Other scholars convi

For months now I have been anticipating a retreat which begins today. Unfortunately I am too sick to drive the hour it would take to get to the retreat. And, really, do my clergy colleagues want to be exposed to me and these flu/cold germs? I don't think so. I am grateful that the fever I've had for two days seems to be gone. But I am left with a thick, foggy head, coughing and sneezing...kleenex is my bff. My retreat time will be spent at home, in bed, with tea. sigh. Instead of being able to enjoy some time in the country I offer this poem from Mary Oliver... Song for Autumn In the deep fall     don't you imagine the leaves think how comfortable it will be to touch     the earth instead of the nothingness of air and the endless     freshets of wind? And don't you think the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,     warm caves, begin to think of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep     inside their bodies? And don't you hear

I've been reading Terry Tempest Williams' latest book, "When Women Were Birds" - a memoir of her mother. This is one reason memories of my mother surface within. Also. Friday, September 21, 2012 was the eighth anniversary of my mother's death. My memories of her are fading. Jergen's lotion reminds me of her hands. Someone will laugh, and I think of the tone of my mother’s laugh, tossing her natural red hair, green eyes shining bright. She claimed an Irish heritage but in reality she was of Scottish descent. Arscot is the family name on her mother’s side.   Holding only a high school diploma, she had a brilliant mind and a lifelong fascination with science and space. She might have been a novelist - gifted with an penchant for detail and a natural talent for storytelling. Her ability to spin reality into her own particular version, one she could live with , was convincing albeit confusing to me. Sadly her reality change, known in psychologi

A reflection on the readings for Proper 20B: Proverbs 31:10-31; James 3:13 - 4:3, 7-8a; Mark 9:30-37 The last powerful rays of the setting sun streamed through the hospital windows as we walked down the corridor. My little two-year old self walked between my parents, holding their hands. It was 1959 and I was about to have my tonsils removed at Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. I was going to spend the night in the hospital, have my tonsils removed in the morning, and go home sometime the next day. My parents settled me into my room, changed me into my pajamas, placed me into the crib and read me a story. Then they kissed me goodnight and left. Parents were not allowed to spend the night with their children. The next several hours must have been a nightmare for the hospital staff. I stood in the crib and cried. I shook the crib across the room. I said, over and over, “I am not a baby! Get me out of this crib.” (I had a one year old brother at home; I knew what