retired pastor
Majesty; Reign of Christ Sunday; November 25, 2018; ICCM; Pastor Rebecca Ellenson
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there was a court jester who boasted that he could make a joke about any subject. “Well, then,” challenged one of the nobles, “make a joke about the King!”
“Ah,” the jester responded, “But, the King is not a subject!” Continue reading “Majesty”
Hannah, In the Heart of God; 1 Samuel 1&2; ICCM; Pastor Rebecca Ellenson
Eli, the aging priest of Shiloh, encounters Hannah praying for a son and he thinks she’s drunk. One other time in the scriptures, pray-ers are mistaken for drunks—on Pentecost. Let that sink in for a minute—have you ever mistaken a pray-er for a drunk? I haven’t. Continue reading “Hannah, In the Heart of God”
Ruth 3: 1-5, 4: 13-17 and Mark 12: 38-44; Widows and Justice; Nov 11, 2018; Pastor Rebecca Ellenson; ICCM
“The Widow’s Mite” is a classic Gospel text that appears in what is usually Stewardship Season back home, the time when congregations ask people for pledges of giving and set the budget for the coming year. Who hasn’t squirmed when a well-meaning pastor asks: “If a poor widow can give her sacrificial bit for the Lord’s work, how can we — so comfortably wealthy by comparison — not give much, much more?” Continue reading “Widows and Justice”
All Saints Sunday, Nov 4, 2018; ICCM; Pastor Rebecca Ellenson; Eccl 3: 1-8
“To everything, turn turn turn. There is a season, turn turn turn, and a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to reap…”
“When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend, we will not be ashamed, to turn, turn will be our delight, til by turning, turning we come round right…”
The season has turned. Here we are, in the beginning of a new season in Mazatlan… leaving behind the turning of the leaves, the turning of the sun from the North and arriving here, in the sunshine.
Steve and I left home just over a week ago and all the trees were bare, except a few of the oak trees, holding on to their last rusty brown leaves and the tamarack trees with their golden needles reflecting off the early morning ice on the stream by our house. We drove south, and bit by bit the seasons turned back, more leaves on the branches with each hundred miles until we emerged from the mountains by Durango into the newly rained-on greenery by Villa Union. Continue reading “Transmitters of Grace”