Sunday, April 6, 2025
Sunday, March 30, 2025
Three Men
Have you ever felt like this? Far from home, far from your self, your true self, far from what you really know your life was meant to be? Maybe you took what you could get and went and blew it - riotous living, bad investment, stupid life choices - but here you are now, at the far end of your senses, and you come to yourself, that is, you come to realize, this is not me, this is not what is meant for me, I may be no better than this but this is not it. The people who know me, really know me, would not recognize me like this. But I need them. I’m going home!
And so you rehearse, all the bad things you have done, all the mistakes, the regrets, all the promises to change, to reform, to just give up and throw yourself on the mercy of the court of inner opinion. Maybe there is somebody you can go to. Maybe you say, “I want to get sober” or “I have made a big mistake” or “I blew it, didn’t I?” I know it, you know it, but now I am admitting it. And I want to come back to a true sense of myself, and of you.
Is this a cry for pity? In the younger son’s story, it doesn’t work. The father does not take him back on the terms he suggests, a disgraced former offspring now fit only to be a hired hand.
But the father does not take the deal. Instead, he welcomes, runs to welcome, the son who was lost and now is found. The child who had strayed, who knows how far, is now returned. Back. From wherever. And that’s it. He’s home. That is what matters.
What matters more, more than forgiveness, repentance, turning around, turning home, is the generosity, the unquestioning welcome, the forgiveness without solicitation or merit, the uncreated gift of the father’s love.
So, Lent. Chocolate? Coffee? Red meat? Movies? Relentless television? Newsfeeds 24/7? Is it about what you give up? Or is it about what you receive? Without merit, without limit. The father’s love precedes any repentance, it is indeed unmerited grace. And it is waiting for us, all the time.
Have you ever felt like that? Worked hard for no reward, no recognition. Just toil. Where did that younger brother get to anyway? At least I get two-thirds of the inheritance (check Deuteronomy 21:17) since I am the firstborn - not that playboy. That waster. To be kind, I saw this coming. From the day he said, give me my inheritance - now: I cannot wait until you are dead, Father. Let’s pretend you already are - dead to me, at least as far as the money goes. And the money went. I have just had it with him.
So now I pick up the pieces. We make do with what is left, Father and I. For I am the good son. The eldest. I hold it all together. I won’t let it get out of hand - again. But no, look, here he comes. Back. And what does he want now?
Have you ever been that boiled in resentment? Felt its heat from far away? No wonder the boy was hesitant, coming home. There is no indication that the younger had thought of the older, just of coming home to his father.
Have you ever felt that deserving, or that underserved, that unappreciated?
But then again the Father seems not to care, not even to care enough to keep count of the loss.
Love does not keep account of wrong. (J. B. Phillips) But rejoices when truth prevails. The truth of the Father’s love.
Being right won’t last forever. Remember the man who had “he was in the right” written on his tombstone. What will last is love. Forgiveness. Let this be a lesson to me. I am not ready to release all my anger, all my resentment, all my sorrow or grief at what is lost. Are you? Anyone?
But I know the day will come. He has already forgiven me. Can I do no less? Relax my hand, and let the pebble fall I meant to throw, like the people in the Temple ready to stone a woman. Put down my hand, with its accusing finger. Not that I am no better, or much worse. That is not the point. This is not comparative justice. “Well, what about —?”
This is about love that does not wait. That comes to us, unbidden, unready, whether we like it or not. Worthy or not.
And finally — have you ever, even in the slightest, felt like this? Someone comes to you to make amends, someone comes for mercy, someone comes to be forgiven, to make things right, as right as they can, without hope or expectation? Twelve-step people may know it, from either side. Making amends is one of the steps to release from addiction. One of the steps to release from the past. With all its errors. (And it is a release to both parties.)
Not to make room for making new errors. Though errors there may be. But simply in this moment to rejoice with the recovered, the resentful, the relieved, and the joyful, in the restoration, renewal, or even better, the new life that now comes to be.
Forgiveness, as the Father gives it, does not merely restore. It makes new.
Behold you are a new creation. All things have become new. In Christ. Amen.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=humDgJ-SmHI
William Hogarth, A Rake's Progress I: The Heir
https://shop.soane.org/products/pod435408?_pos=31&_sid=c20f76fc1&_ss=r
Sunday, March 23, 2025
Third Sunday in Lent
O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; *
my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you,
my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you,
as in a barren and dry land where there is no water.
as in a barren and dry land
Moses turned aside, curious, at least, perhaps pulled by some deeper emotion, to see what was causing the bush to burn yet not be consumed. He was in a barren and dry land, perhaps; he and his father-in-law Reuel’s flock (Zipporah’s father) had strayed beyond the wilderness, far from home base, and found themselves on this mountain holy to the Midianites. (His father-in-law was a priest of Midian.)
More than thirst was going on. Thirst for justice. Thirst for freedom. Thirst to worship without fear. Hunger and thirst. drought and famine, from which the Israelites cried out to be released. From a more than physical bondage they fled. And Moses was the one to lead them. As always, the improbable one, the one called by God, is the one to lead the way.
Moses was no ordinary son of Abraham. He fled from Pharaoh after killing an Egyptian and hiding the body in the sand. He wandered far away into the desert between Egypt with its watered fields and Canaan the land where milk and honey flowed.
Because he had been there first, he could lead the people through the deserted unknown places. Because he knew his own unworthiness, indeed his sin, he could lead others through the passage between bondage and freedom.
Key to our understanding is this feeling of unworthiness, reasonable unworthiness, indeed of awe. Remember : when Jesus instructed the fishermen to let down their nets and they encountered a miraculous catch of fish, Peter said to Jesus, go away for me for I am an unworthy man. The presence of the holy overwhelmed him.
Here it is the presence of the divine, manifested first in the miraculous sight, the sign of the bush, the symbol of its burning, then in the message of the angel, take off your sandals, for where you stand is holy ground, that awes the modest human, causing him to be unclothed of all his weary sinfulness. This is the beginning of redemption.
Remember: Moses had fled Egypt, a sinner, a murderer indeed. He has found shelter, comfort, even a wife, in a new life far from Pharaoh’s power. And yet that is not enough, not for God, and not for Moses’ life. God now redeems him; redeems him like a debt unpaid. Moses begins to reconcile with the one more important than (but not in contravention of ) any human law. He must go back.
O God.
And free his people. First he must convince them. Whom shall I say sent me? The ground of being, in a nice phrase, for the one whom he met standing on holy ground is indeed the creative, organizing, and inspiring power of the universe. Beyond holy. Beyond any god of man and women he might think might merit devotion. This is the one who is. I am who I am, I will be who I will be, I am he who causes to be all that comes to be. And yet is not consumed, comprehended, encompassed by all that, but contains it within his will. His will and power and mercy. Justice and steadfast love. That is who Moses has fallen a-fair of.
How will I possibly convince them? I cannot even talk.
You have a brother, Aaron – and a sister, Miriam. He will speak for you, she shall lead the women in dance and exaltation, in praise at the deliverance of the people.
This shall all come to be. I am who I am. I am the one who causes to be what is, and what will be.
Take off your shoes. All right, put them back on. Go back and break the news to your father-in-law. And your wife, Zipporah.
O god. Indeed.
care o’ fig
In the Old Testament lesson for this Sunday a man confronts a plant that embodied the divine. In the gospel lesson a man who embodies the divine speaks about a plant. I think it’s about more than that, don’t you? It seems to me that in today’s gospel, the plant is a plant and this is good husbandry. I also think it could be a figure (pun alert, sorry!) for Israel or the Church. One more year, pleads the gardener; give me one more year to turn things around. I’ll dig around it and give it fertilizer. (Personally I’m tempted to try this on a couple of trees - again - this spring, but a hae ma doots about a couple of them: they look like goners to me.)
Jesus as the gardener, the Father as the landowner, and the people as the vineyard with the fig tree in it. In California I’ve seen, at the turn to Glen Ellen, roses growing at the end of rows of vines of wine grapes. I’ve been told they act like canaries in a coal mine, as they are likely to show symptoms of stress before they are visible on the vines. Here in the gospel imagery the fig tree is taken as a common accompaniment to vines in the garden. So each of us can shelter under the shade of the tree and eat from the vine; they are companions in the field.
"A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, 'See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?' He replied, 'Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.'"
God has not given up on us yet. Art Hoppe had a wonderful image in his column in the San Francisco Chronicle. There on a cloud are the Lord and the angel Gabriel contemplating, once again, the follies of the human race. The Lord pats his beard, thinkingly. Gabriel is more cheerfully decisive: eagerly he inquires, “Shall I sound the eviction notice?” brandishing his trumpet. But the Lord says, no, no, give them another chance.
How long can this go on?
Perhaps we find out in other vineyard and landlord parables, like the one where the wicked tenants insult and assault the managers’ messengers who are sent to collect the rent, then finally the son of the owner. The message there is that that might not work out so well for the tenants. They can be replaced.
I suppose Gabriel, in the Chronicle story, had something similar in mind.
God gives us another chance. If that is what this parable is about, it is not so complicated. And parables need not be so complicated. They may have one simple message, that we can see because first it turns upside down our common view. Once we look at the world with new vision it changes.
The passage before that confronts us with the common linkage between sin and misery. They must have done something, been worse than other people, or this calamity would not have fallen upon them. But they are no worse than others. Indeed, they are no worse than we are! No more deserving of tragedy, loss, or catastrophe. That does not mean they are without sin. It means that they and we are no more sinful - and perhaps no less - than anybody else.
At that very time there were some present who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, "Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them--do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did."
Negligence or police brutality, natural disaster or human turpitude, not victims’ sin.
No grounds for judgment; no grounds for schadenfreude (joy at the pain of others); no secret security for us as better people. And no safe place to hide from God’s inexorable… grace. For he did not come into the world to judge the world, but to redeem it. That is what this season is about; that is what it is preparing us for: the outrageous reality of God’s self-sacrifice, self-emptying gift, to free us from our own prisons of folly, guilt, error, and all the other failings of the human comedy.
Therefore I have gazed upon you in your holy place, *
that I might behold your power and your glory.
For your loving-kindness is better than life itself; *
my lips shall give you praise.
© 2025 John Leech
Friday, March 21, 2025
as in a barren and dry land
Moses turned aside, curious, at least, perhaps pulled by some deeper emotion, to see what was causing the bush to burn yet not be consumed. He was in a barren and dry land, perhaps; he and his father-in-law Reuel’s flock (Zipporah’s father) had strayed beyond the wilderness, far from home base, and found themselves on this mountain holy to the Midianites. (His father-in-law was a priest of Midian.)
More than thirst was going on. Thirst for justice. Thirst for freedom. Thirst to worship without fear. Hunger and thirst. drought and famine, from which the Israelites cried out to be released. From a more than physical bondage they fled. And Moses was the one to lead them. As always, the improbable one, the one called by God, is the one to lead the way.
Moses was no ordinary son of Abraham. He fled from Pharaoh after killing an Egyptian and hiding the body in the sand. He wandered far away into the desert between Egypt with its watered fields and Canaan the land where milk and honey flowed.
Because he had been there first, he could lead the people through the deserted unknown places. Because he knew his own unworthiness, indeed his sin, he could lead others through the passage between bondage and freedom.
Key to our understanding is this feeling of unworthiness, reasonable unworthiness, indeed of awe. Remember : when Jesus instructed the fishermen to let down their nets and they encountered a miraculous catch of fish, Peter said to Jesus, go away for me for I am an unworthy man. The presence of the holy overwhelmed him.
Here it is the presence of the divine, manifested first in the miraculous sight, the sign of the bush, the symbol of its burning, then in the message of the angel, take off your sandals, for where you stand is holy ground, that awes the modest human, causing him to be unclothed of all his weary sinfulness. This is the beginning of redemption.
Remember: Moses had fled Egypt, a sinner, a murderer indeed. He has found shelter, comfort, even a wife, in a new life far from Pharaoh’s power. And yet that is not enough, not for God, and not for Moses’ life. God now redeems him; redeems him like a debt unpaid. Moses begins to reconcile with the one more important than (but not in contravention of ) any human law. He must go back.
O God.
And free his people. First he must convince them. Whom shall I say sent me? The ground of being, in a nice phrase, for the one whom he met standing on holy ground is indeed the creative, organizing, and inspiring power of the universe. Beyond holy. Beyond any god of man and women he might think might merit devotion. This is the one who is. I am who I am, I will be who I will be, I am he who causes to be all that comes to be. And yet is not consumed, comprehended, encompassed by all that, but contains it within his will. His will and power and mercy. Justice and steadfast love. That is who Moses has fallen a-fair of.
How will I possibly convince them? I cannot even talk.
You have a brother, Aaron – and a sister, Miriam. He will speak for you, she shall lead the women in dance and exaltation, in praise at the deliverance of the people.
This shall all come to be. I am who I am. I am the one who causes to be what is, and what will be.
Take off your shoes. All right, put them back on. Go back and break the news to your father-in-law. And your wife, Zipporah.
O god. Indeed.
care o’ fig
In the OT lesson a man confronted a plant that embodied the divine. In the gospel lesson a man who embodies the divine speaks about a plant. I think it’s about more than that, don’t you? It seems to me that in today’s gospel, the plant is a plant and this is good husbandry. I also think it could be a figure (pun alert, sorry!) for Israel or the Church. One more year, pleads the gardener; give me one more year to turn things around. I’ll dig around it and give it fertilizer. (Personally I’m tempted to try this on a couple of trees - again - this spring, but a hae ma doots about a couple of them: they look like goners to me.) Jesus as the gardener, the Father as the landowner, and the people as the vineyard with the fig tree in it. In California I’ve seen, at the turn to Glen Ellen, roses growing at the end of rows of vines of wine grapes. I’ve been told they act like canaries in a coal mine, as they are likely to show symptoms of stress before they are visible on the vines. Here in the gospel imagery the fig tree is taken as a common accompaniment to vines in the garden. So each of us can shelter under the shade of the tree and eat from the vine; they are companions in the field.
"A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, 'See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?' He replied, 'Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.'"
God has not given up on us yet. Art Hoppe had a wonderful image in his column in the San Francisco Chronicle. There on a cloud are the Lord and the angel Gabriel contemplating, once again, the follies of the human race. The Lord pats his beard, thinkingly. Gabriel is more cheerfully decisive: eagerly he inquires, “Shall I sound the eviction notice?” brandishing his trumpet. But the Lord says, no, no, give them another chance.
How long can this go on?
Perhaps we find out in other vineyard and landlord parables, like the one where the wicked tenants insult and assault the managers’ messengers who are sent to collect the rent, then finally the son of the owner. The message there is that that might not work out so well for the tenants. They can be replaced.
I suppose Gabriel, in the Chronicle story, had something similar in mind.
God gives us another chance. If that is what this parable is about, it is not so complicated. And parables need not be so complicated. They may have one simple message, that we can see because first it turns upside down our common view. Once we look at the world with new vision it changes.
The passage before that confronts us with the common linkage between sin and misery. They must have done something, been worse than other people, or this calamity would not have fallen upon them. But they are no worse than others. Indeed, they are no worse than we are! No more deserving of tragedy, loss, or catastrophe. That does not mean they are without sin. It means that they and we are no more sinful - and perhaps no less - than anybody else.
At that very time there were some present who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, "Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them--do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did."
Negligence or police brutality, natural disaster or human turpitude, not victims’ sin.
No grounds for judgment; no grounds for schadenfreude (joy at the pain of others); no secret security for us as better people. And no safe place to hide from God’s inexorable… grace. For he did not come into the world to judge the world, but to redeem it. That is what this season is about; that is what it is preparing us for: the outrageous reality of God’s self-sacrifice, self-emptying gift, to free us from our own prisons of folly, guilt, error, and all the other failings of the human comedy.
Sunday, March 16, 2025
Jerusalem
John Leech on the Mount of Olives, January 2015.
Photo: Timothy Dombek.
O Jerusalem Jerusalem how often have I longed to gather your children to me as a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings.
When I first saw Jerusalem it was a dream fulfilled. It did not look like I had imagined it would, except for the big buildings so frequently photographed. My pilgrim group, largely Episcopal priests and their families, had come to the City from Bethlehem, where we visited the Church of the Nativity. Now we were going into the Old City of Jerusalem, where we would visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We would stand atop the Temple Mount aka the Haram al-Sharif. We would also approach its base, where the Western Wall calls to its stone the supplications of devout Jews and curious Christians. And we beheld the City from across the Kidron Valley, when we walked down through the graveyards of the Mount of Olives to a church near its base, called Dominus Flevit (“The Lord wept”). There, right near the Garden of Gethsemane and its nine ancient olive trees, I sat in the front pew facing the altar. Through the arms of the Cross on the altar I sighted straight across to the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock.
Dominus flevit. The Lord wept. “As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.’” (Luke 19:41-42)
When he came to Jerusalem for the last time and beheld that same sight, the Lord had cause to weep. And he cried out, ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me again until the time comes when you say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” ’ (Luke 13:34-35)
When I first saw Jerusalem, I had a book along with me, in my luggage, packed carefully. It is by my college advisor Donald Nicholl, who served four years as rector of the ecumenical study institute at Tantur, outside Jerusalem on the way from Bethlehem. In it he related his attempts to be a bridge person, one whom people from various traditions and with varying viewpoints could all come for an understanding heart. And he related how he and his wife, Dorothy Nicholl, had agreed to try to maintain balance. If we find ourselves favoring one side to the exclusion of the other, they agreed, we will find that our hearts have been hardened. [Donald Nicholl, The Testing of Hearts: A Pilgrim’s Journal (Lamp Press/Marshall Morgan and Scott, 1989), rev. ed. 1998 subtitled A Pilgrim’s Journey. (Darton, Longman and Todd)
A friend emailed me from Santa Cruz Friday: ‘I remember him saying something quite similar, which was that they had a test that if they ever chose one side over the other, it was time to go home. And like you, I have always remembered it and it has come up in different circumstances fairly often.’ (Seana Graham, 3/14/2025, email)
Have our hearts been hardened? How difficult it is not to take sides. How challenging but how necessary to peace to engage and to humanize people with whom we disagree. Listen to them, see them as human, not as Those People or even as some sort of objects. In Dorothy and Donald’s time, forty years ago, as in ours, the Holy Land is in conflict, and still it is between those whose collective trauma is the Holocaust and those for whom it is an-Nakba, the Catastrophe. For the Israeli there is something in the past that can never be forgotten and should not ever be factored out of their perspective. For the Palestinian, 1948 was the time, not of the War of Independence, as Israelis may call it, but Catastrophe, the displacement from ancestral homelands that forms their historical trauma.
To take one side in such a struggle is to harden one’s heart. If we can keep our hearts as hearts of flesh and not of stone we can find peace. There are people in the Holy Land trying to do that. We pilgrims met two fathers, one Israeli, one Palestinian, who each lost a son in the conflict there, but now together will meet with groups such as ours to talk about their common work at building understanding across divides. And as recently as the Academy Awards ceremony American filmgoers learned of a pair of film makers, one Arab, one Israeli, who have documented together the life in one village during the current conflict.
Not long ago the Rev. Dr. Gary Mason, who directs a conflict transformation organization based in Belfast called ‘Rethinking Conflict’, came to Tucson to talk about how in Northern Ireland they have addressed the questions, Why are we divided? and What can we do about it? [Besides the Arizona Faith Network, he also advises Carter Center groups in several states, nonpartisan democracy resilience networks, to address these questions.]
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/northern-irelands-lesson-for-israel/
He told us that the Good Friday agreement was one of the peak achievements of American diplomacy of the last fifty years. That was a peace facilitated by George Mitchell and Bill Clinton. Indeed I remember when we were in the western islands of Galway our innkeeper made a point of telling us how grateful the people of Ireland were for this agreement and the American help to reach it.
We did not send guns or bombs. The coins and currency in glass jars on bars throughout the United States, that went for such things, did not help at all. What helped? Two people who helped them see what was dividing them and what could be done about it.
There is much there to discover. One thing I recall is that once people once divided began to see each other as people rather than adversaries, their eyes began to change. One man, once a partisan, said, if I had been born 300 yards away I would have grown up supporting the other side. It was just that. A human moment. It helped him imagine and acknowledge the humanity of a stranger, indeed an adversary.
In Jerusalem today the same Gary Mason sometimes visits and compares notes, shares what he and his compatriots have learned, as the peoples of that holy land seek to reconcile with one another and find a way to peace. This is the real Jerusalem. And you know what? It is not that far from that imaginary - or prophetic - holy new Jerusalem in the sky.
Because the distance from one to the other is the distance across a human heart. The distance, also, from one heart to another. The distance that closes when we begin to see each other in aspiration, that is, as the holy spirit conceives us to be in our best selves. And that best self, in each of us, is shaped by that spirit as we are brought closer to the perfection that is only ours as it is a gift of that savior and a work of that spirit that came to the Mount of Olives years ago, and called across the valley, “O Jerusalem Jerusalem, how often have I longed…”
In Jesus’ time the conflicts were perhaps even more bitter, within the Jewish community, with their neighbors, with the imperial power in whose unfond embrace they found themselves.
We recently recalled the miracle of the transfiguration, the end of the Galilean ministry, after which Jesus set his face toward Jerusalem. Accompanied by his disciples, he made his way into the City and into the Temple. After driving out the monetizers of devotion, and rebuking the hypocritical rule-makers, Jesus spread his arms and spoke the words we remember, O Jerusalem Jerusalem.
How can we imagine him as any other than the one sent by God to bring his people together? It is not a martial metaphor. He is not like the heroes of old, arming to resist conquerors. He is coming for more than political liberation. He is coming for the total liberation from bondage to more than political oppression. And he is coming for all people.
***
Civil conflicts, Gary Mason told us, ‘are mostly based in land, identity, and religion’. This is true for northern Ireland, for the Holy Land, and even for ourselves, when we find ourselves in polarized political headlock.
Various factors predispose a situation for conflict. Change can be hard. Fear. Polarization is bigger than any one of us – but understanding that should lead to grace. We need to identify shared values, and to create platforms for conversation.*
We need to move from misperception to understanding, to create a language of understanding. Engage and humanize. Invite and listen: “tell me your story.” And to realize: we love this place, this state, this country, this earth, we share, and in large part we do trust each other. And that can grow. And it must.
Democracy, quipped Winston Churchill or Mark Twain or my mom, is not the best form of government until you have tried all the others. Maybe human kindness is not the quickest way to sudden success, but it is, after you have tried all the others, the way forward to the day we live together in peace and charity, with liberty and justice for all.
The beginning of wisdom lies in acknowledgement of our own folly, and then forgiveness.
O Jerusalem Jerusalem - may the one who longed to gather your children to himself be the one to gather us together.
***
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem! You who kill the prophets and stone those who were sent to you. How often I wanted to gather your people together, just as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. But you didn’t want that”. (Matthew 23:37, Common English Bible)
* Nathan Stock from the Carter Center gave Arizona Democracy Resilience Network an excellent presentation on why we are divided and what we can do about it.
Second Sunday in Lent. Episcopal Church of Saint Matthew, Tucson. Sunday 15 March 2025. JRL+
© 2025 John Leech
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