December 7, 2025: Advent 2 - Ezekiel 37:1–14 Can These Bones Live?

“The opposite of faith is not doubt, but indifference."                Elie Wiesel  

Ezekiel’s vision begins in a landscape of utter devastation: a valley littered with bones, “very many, and very dry.” It is a metaphor for a people crushed by violence, displacement, and despair. Exile has stripped Israel of its identity, its stability, and its hope. Into this scene, God brings Ezekiel. He is not there to observe, but to participate in the healing that is about to unfold.

Such a lesson for us now. God brings us to places we would avoid. “The hand of the Lord… set me down in the middle of a valley.”

Ezekiel does not choose this valley; God leads him there. For us, this is the inward and outward journey into the places we most fear: Here lie the traumas we bury, the injustices we normalize, the communities our society has abandoned, and perhaps the ecological ruin we barely face.

The Spirit often brings us where polite religion refuses to go. Prophetic imagination begins by witnessing what is broken without turning away. A hard question is asked: “Can These Bones Live?” God asks not for a doctrinal statement, but for Ezekiel’s hopeful imagination. The prophet replies, “O Lord God, you know.” His reply contains a mixture of humility and openness. It is an answer that honors both reality (the bones are dead) and possibility (God can do what we cannot yet conceive).

This is the heart of progressive faith: holding grief and hope together, refusing both denial and despair.

Today, questions echo across the valleys around us:

• Can communities fractured by racism live?

• Can the earth, wounded by ecological destruction, live?

• Can democracies threatened by injustice live?

• Can church traditions that have harmed LGBTQ+ people live in a new way?

• Can our own exhausted spirits live?

As Christians, we must insist: yes, breath is still possible.

“Prophesy to these bones and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.”

God does not magically reassemble the bones. God invites Ezekiel into the work. This is a divine partnership, what some theologians call co-creation. God’s healing moves through human voices, human courage, and human solidarity.

To prophesy today is not primarily to predict the future, but to speak life where death has claimed the last word:

• speaking truth against systems that dehumanize,

• proclaiming dignity where society calls people disposable,

• advocating liberation,

• naming injustice,

• dreaming of alternatives.

Prophetic speech is not abstract, it is speech that changes reality.

“There were sinews… flesh… skin… but there was no breath in them.”

Alison, a contributor to our Creator discussions, emphasized how she has always loved this story. Her thoughts, in this reading, went to people in prisons and people in I.C.E. detention centers currently who find a way to cling to hope in the ugliest of all situations. 

Christ is among all of them and the two-step miracle here mirrors real transformation. First comes structure, encompassing all the organizing, repairing, and building that goes into creating a community. It might feel this is without breath (ruach as we learned at the Oregon Synod Assembly: spirit, wind, or life-force). These structures, in and of themselves, fall short of God’s promise.

But at Creator we are encouraged to:

• Organize for justice and seek spiritual renewal.

• Build systems of care and cultivate wonder.

• Reform institutions and welcome the Spirit’s unpredictable movement.

• Create inclusive churches and pray for deep transformation.

Reform without Spirit becomes bureaucracy. Spirit without reform becomes sentimentality. Ezekiel shows the union of both

“Prophesy to the breath… and breath came into them.”

The Spirit enters from every direction; north, south, east, and west. This is God’s radically inclusive movement. The winds do not discriminate. No culture, identity, or community monopolizes the Spirit. Breath flows across boundaries, traditions, and borders.

As we discussed Creator's vision and mission last Sunday this was articulated by all who were there:

• honoring diverse voices,

• seeing God’s life in communities outside Christianity,

• embracing the global movement for justice as Spirit-led,

• trusting that renewal is never confined to our tribe.

The breath that brings life is bigger than us.

“They stood on their feet, a vast multitude.”

The bones don’t come back to life as isolated persons; they rise as a people, a community. Salvation in Scripture is communal and embodied. The vision points toward liberation, not escape; toward rebuilding society, not retreating from it.

This challenges individualistic spirituality. Resurrection is not an interior feeling; it is a collective rising, a shared reclamation of hope.

This is not a promise of resuscitation but resurrection; in new life and new identity, we have a new future. For exiles in Babylon, restoration didn’t erase their wounds; it wove them into a story of survival and renewal.

For us today, this text proclaims:

• Trauma does not get the last word.

• History’s injustices can be transformed.

• Communities written off as “dead” can rise.

• Creation itself can heal.

• The Spirit is never done with us.

The Valley of Dry Bones is a vision of God’s relentless commitment to life. It invites us:

• to face the broken places with honesty,

• to dare to hope against despair,

• to speak life into death-dealing systems,

• to trust the breath that moves from every direction,

• to rise as communities shaped by justice and compassion.

It is a story for any people who have been told they are finished.
It is a story for a world desperately needing breath.
It is a story for every valley we stand in, whispering the same question:

“Can these bones live?” 
And the Spirit still answers: “Yes.”

November 30, 2025: Daniel 3 - Today's Story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego

"We are lonely for our more-than-human kin… but the land is lonely for us, too. The land loves us, and we need that conduit to love the land back. Out of that, anything is possible.” — Robin Wall Kimmerer

We open with a familiar pattern of empire. Nebuchadnezzar is a ruler who elevates his own image and enforces loyalty through fear. His golden statue is less a religious symbol and more a political project. This is a monument to national glory and unity by coercion. It is the ancient version of propaganda, A fiery furnace is the threat to anyone who dares dissent.

Against this pageant of imperial worship stand three young exiles: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They are individuals whose bodies do not belong to the dominant culture. Their names have been changed by the state. Their heritage and language have been pressed into conformity. Even in exile, however, and despite serving within the structures of Babylon’s government, they insist they do not bow to the idols of empire:

The furnace is meant to destroy them, but instead it exposes the truth: that oppression is always unsustainable, that coercive power is fragile, and that God’s liberating presence refuses to abandon those who stand on the side of truth and conscience.

The text tells us that a fourth figure appears with them. This is one “like a son of the gods.” Whether understood as an angel, a Christ-like presence, or a poetic sign of divine nearness, the message is the same: God does not stand outside the fire, but steps into it with the oppressed.

This is the heart of the Gospel. God is not neutral. God is not aligned with Nebuchadnezzar or with any system that demands unquestioned allegiance. God is found with those who resist, who hold fast to conscience, who protect their dignity even when the cost is great.

The golden statue of Daniel 3 is an enduring metaphor for the idols that modern societies construct. Today we have idols of nationalism, racial superiority, unregulated power, wealth, violence, or rigid ideology. These idols demand our silence, our participation, and sometimes our worship.

But the witness of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego reminds us that our faith calls us to holy noncompliance, particularly regarding unregulated power. Not every command of the state is just. Not every cultural expectation is God’s will and not every demand for unity deserves obedience. Holy noncompliance is not sedition

Their defiance is not strident; it is calm, honest, and rooted in trust: “Our God is able to deliver us… but even if God does not, we still will not bow.” This is the declaration of a liberated conscience. This is faith that refuses to be weaponized.

One of the most striking features of this story is that the three act together. Liberation is communal. Courage is shared. No one is expected to resist alone.

Our Creator community today can draw strength from this: we do not face the fires of injustice in isolation. We stand shoulder to shoulder with immigrants, LGBTQ+ people, Black and brown neighbors, the poor, the disabled, the marginalized, and all who believe in the sacred dignity of every human being.

When we refuse to bow to systems that diminish life, we then find Christ walking beside us, sometimes visible, sometimes only as courage or peace that should not be possible given the circumstances.

It is easy to end the story at the rescue, but Daniel 3 offers something further. We're given the possibility of transformation. Nebuchadnezzar, a violent tyrant responsible for the suffering of countless people, is confronted by a miracle he cannot control. He sees the fire fail. He sees the freedom of those he meant to crush. He sees God with the ones he condemned.

The arc of the story bends toward a new awareness: even those shaped by empire can be changed when they witness the courage and faithfulness of the oppressed. God’s liberation is not just for the faithful; it is a call to conversion for the powerful.

Daniel 3 challenges the church to examine where we stand in our lives. Too often, the institution has blessed the statues of empire rather than the people in the furnace. Christianity insists on a different alignment: Conscience must prevail over conformity,  Justice should triumph over convenience, and help the oppressed more than the powerful.

Our God who shows up in the flames. The task of the church is not to avoid the fires of our time, but to step into them in solidarity. We trust that Christ is already there, dismantling the instruments of oppression from the inside.

The final message of Daniel 3 is not triumphalism but hope. Oppression will not get the final word. The fires meant to destroy can become the spaces where God is most visible and the courage of a few can transform the conscience of a nation.

In every age, God calls people of faith to resist the idols of empire and to stand with integrity, compassion, and holy defiance. And when we do, we discover what the three exiles discovered long ago: that God’s liberating presence is most fully revealed not in the halls of power, but in the fire where justice and love refuse to burn.

“Love is the deepest form of knowledge, for it requires us to become what we know.” — Thomas Merton

 

November 23, 2025: Jeremiah 29:1, 4–14 When Uprooted; Build Houses, Plant Gardens

“There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred and desecrated places.” 
 Wendell Berry

July 21, 2024 - On this morning of rain mingling with sunlight, there was a gathering that felt a spirit of hope, renewal, and holy purpose. Members of Creator and partners from the Farmland Distribution Project stood together, soil beneath our feet, and sky above our heads, to dedicate a garden. What had long been anticipated became, in this moment, a sacred act.

Jeremiah wrote to a people living far from home, reminding them of God’s enduring presence and calling: 

Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce… Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. (Jeremiah 29:5, 7).

In these words, God invites a displaced community not merely to endure but to root themselves, to plant life, to cultivate hope. And in the verses that follow, God assures them:

I know the plans I have for you… plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. (Jeremiah 29:11).

On Sunday, as we reflected on the importance of planting and the distribution of the produce of this garden. We responded to that same ancient and living call that is captured in this week's scripture reading.

Just as God adorned creation with fruits, flowers, and countless mysteries of life, we consecrated this space to be both beautiful and bountiful. This garden reminds us that God’s love is not abstract but embodied, in soil and seed, in sun and rain, in the miracle of growth. As these first seeds took root, we trusted that community faith would also deepen, and that the harvests gathered here would nourish many. The produce has now been harvested and distributed. The Sunday before last, Creator held a Harvest Festival where participants feasted on what the garden had produced

We pray that this garden will continue to thrive under the watchful care of those who tend it and under the generous warmth of the sun. 

After Sunday's service, Pastor Emillie led another congregational discussion following up on our past Cottage meetings about Creator's ongoing mission. After acknowledging the collective wisdom of the congregation, she asked what we felt was the importance of this realized garden. The hospitality of those who receive the bounty of what is planted is important to its success.

For Creator, the garden (together with Creator's Land Story team) links us more closely to a story that goes beyond the history of who owned the land, and shifts the focus to how it is being used. With each collective decision we make, we contribute to the ongoing story. 

This Jeremiah reading adds deep wisdom and also eloquently answers her question. This garden has become a place of fellowship and learning, a space where we share and celebrate the rhythms of nature, recognizing the divine woven into every living thing.

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you" (Jeremiah 1:5) . Pastor Emillie said if she were to get a Bible verse tattoo, it would be either Jeremiah 1;5 or a portion of Jeremiah 29:11. Both have filled her with a sense of comfort and God's care for her as an individual.

Which brings me to another dimension of that year-old consecration. It marked a beginning, not an end. We started a journey infused with growth, bounty, beauty, and grace. In a profound and foundational way, we are becoming spiritually joined with Jeremiah’s exiled community in proclaiming and by demonstrating trust: that God is here and is at work among us.

Let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest time, if we do not give up.  

Galatians 6:9 

Hope for the world continues to abound.

November 16, 2025: Original Meaning of Isaiah's “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

The strong one is not the one who overcomes others by force, but the one who controls themselves when angry.”

Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), Sahih al-Bukhari 

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.

Isaiah 9:2

All of our sacred traditions whisper the same truth: the measure of a life well-lived is not what we own, but how we belong. 

This reading provides the first glimpse of our forthcoming Advent. 

If last week's Amos is the roar, Isaiah is the dawn.

Where Amos shakes the gates with divine urgency, Isaiah opens them to reveal what comes after repentance, which, by another name, is renewal. The roar that once shattered complacency now gives way to the sound of a quiet and radiant light. Both prophets speak to a God who will support humanity. The roar was never meant to destroy, but meant to awaken. And once the people awaken, the light appears.

Isaiah, too, speaks to a people bruised by empire, exiled by greed and war. He knows what it is to walk in darkness. He speaks of political darkness and social darkness He articulates the kind of despair that seeps into the bones of a nation. Yet into this darkness, he dares to announce a birth.

A child.

A fragile sign of divine possibility. The “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

This is not the language of conquest but of re-creation. The light that dawns in Isaiah’s vision does not come from palaces or armies; it shines through the most vulnerable, a child, a promise, a hope yet to be realized. If Amos exposes our systems of injustice, Isaiah imagines what healed systems could look like. The two prophets stand together: one calling us to repentance, the other calling us to hope.

Isaiah’s words invite us to believe that peace is not passive. Restoring righteousness and justice is the active work of rebuilding what injustice has broken. The “great light” is not simply divine comfort; it is divine calling. It asks us to live as children of that light, building communities where truth and mercy meet, and where leadership reflects compassion rather than control.

When Isaiah proclaims that “the yoke of their burden, the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor” will be broken, we can hear the echo of Amos’s demand for justice in the gate. God’s dream for the world is consistent: liberation, equity, flourishing life for all people. The difference is that Isaiah shows us the form that dream will take. These words envision a government of peace, an order built on righteousness. The roar of God becomes a lullaby of restoration.

In our time, when violence and division seem unrelenting, Isaiah’s vision reminds us that God’s response to human cruelty is not greater force but deeper love. The divine answer to oppression is incarnation where God enters our fragility, dwelling among us and bringing light into our particular darkness.

As a community of faith, Creator's task is to live between Amos’s roar and Isaiah’s dawn. We strain to hear the urgency of justice and embody the gentleness of peace. We protest systems that crush the poor and, at the same time, we nurture spaces where new life can grow. We celebrated that new life this Sunday at the Harvest Party. We are coming into Advent and Advent people live in that tension. We are both the ones awakened by the roar and the ones walking toward the light.

The church, when it behaves like the ecclesia, holds these two prophets in creative balance. We cry out with Amos: “Let justice roll down like waters!” And we sing with Isaiah: “For unto us a child is born.” The roar and the lullaby are not opposites; they are movements of the same divine melody, justice and mercy meeting in perfect harmony.

What I heard for the first time at our Wednesday Bible study is the style of this Isaiah 9 text echoes royal enthronement proclamations that were common across the ancient Near East, including Egypt. In Egypt and Mesopotamia, when a new king was crowned. Scribes often composed hymns or oracles praising the birth or installation of that king as a divine gift who would bring peace and order after chaos, be called by divine titles, and embody divine wisdom or justice.

For example, in Egyptian coronation hymns, Pharaoh was called “Son of Re,” “Lord of Truth,” “Bringer of Order”. All these are divine-sounding titles similar in tone to “Mighty God” and “Prince of Peace.” Also, the birth stories of kings in Egypt (like that of Hatshepsut or Amenhotep III) presented the ruler as miraculously begotten by a god to restore cosmic harmony (ma’at).

I felt the Christian filter slip away, so fundamental to how I interpreted the Advent words of “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”. Today, the original significance of these Isaiah acclamations was revealed to me for the first time. This is fitting while I discover each deeper implication involved in all the Biblical teaching of "No Kings" as it permeates and persists throughout every book of scripture.   

November 9, 2025: Amos: Building a Community of Justice and Beloved Belonging

The book of Amos opens with a thunderclap:

“The Lord roars from Zion.” 

Amos 1:2

Sermon

This image of a roaring God is not one of quiet comfort but of divine urgency. Amos, a shepherd and dresser of sycamore trees, steps out of obscurity with a prophetic message that shakes the complacent hearts of Israel’s privileged. 

The roar from Zion is not a sound of destruction for destruction’s sake. This roar is a response to humanity's wail. These words echo the cry of a God who will not remain silent in the face of exploitation and indifference. God’s voice, fierce as a lion’s, calls a community that has lost its moral bearings back to the covenant of justice and mercy.

Amos 5:14–15 moves from judgment to invitation:

“Seek good and not evil, that you may live… Hate evil and love good, and establish justice in the gate.”

Here, “the gate” refers to the center of public life. This is the place where decisions are made are enacted. For Amos, justice is not an abstract ideal or a personal virtue; it is a public practice. It lives or dies in the way a community treats its most vulnerable members. To “seek good” is to align one’s daily life with God’s dream for the world, to let love shape our politics, our economics, and our relationships.

Then comes the thunderous heart of the book:

“I hate, I despise your festivals… take away from me the noise of your songs… But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Amos 5:21–24

These are among the most radical words in Scripture. They reveal a God who refuses empty worship. God does not need songs without substance or prayers without compassion. In Amos’s vision, authentic worship is inseparable from social justice. The temple liturgy is judged not by its beauty but by its fruits: do the poor eat? Do the widows have shelter? Do the marginalized find dignity? If not, even the most glorious hymn becomes noise in God’s ears. Once again, as SNAP benefits are at the heart of a national debate, this is a verse that feels very relevant to consider at this moment.

Amos’s voice roars across the centuries. It reminds us that faith cannot retreat into private spirituality or polite charity. The prophet calls us into the hard, holy work of transforming the structures that perpetuate inequality. Justice is not a project for a few activists; it is the lifeblood of a community we are all struggling for that dares to embody God’s love in public.

When Amos declares, “Seek good and not evil, that you may live,” he is pointing us toward abundant life, not merely an existential survival, but communal flourishing. God’s vision is not punitive but restorative: to create a society where everyone belongs, where peace and fairness flow like an endless river.

The task before us, then, is both spiritual and systemic. To pray is to act; to worship is to work for change. Every community of faith is called to become a “justice gate”. We long for a place where decisions honor human dignity. When will the poor be lifted up? When will mercy and righteousness embrace?

When the Church behaves like the ecclesia, it remembers that it doesn’t exist for itself. It exists for the sake of the world God loves. To “behave like the ecclesia” means: To gather as one body, listen to the Spirit, live out the teachings of Jesus, practice radical love and justice, and go forth to heal a broken world — until all creation is reconciled in Christ. 

The word ecclesia (Greek: ἐκκλησία) literally means “the called-out assembly.” In the New Testament, it refers not to a building or institution, but to the gathered people of God, those called out from the world to live as the Body of Christ in the world. 

May we, like Amos, hear the roar of divine compassion in our own time.
May we let that roar awaken us to the truth that the holiest offering we can bring to God is not merely incense or song, but a people living together in righteousness and justice that flows without end.

November 7, 2025: Christa Hoven Memorial

 

Bach Arioso From Cantata no 156 Performed by Christa
https://youtu.be/jM0_LWcOBq0

Christa Hoven performs To Spring, Op. 43, No. 6 : Edvard Grieg

https://youtu.be/qNgzSp4GBqo

Eulogy - Brian, Tina, Nicole

Opening Prayer: selected by Christa Gabrielle reads

Remembrance/ Slideshow Music by Christa
Christa Hoven performs Claire de Lune by Debussy

 https://youtu.be/9ijJHV6Bck8

Scripture Reading: 

First Reading: Romans 8:38-39 & Psalm 23 Amy reads

Gospel Acclamation: R&A Gospel Acclamation: All Souls (Melody)

John 14:1-4

Homily

Hymn of the day: Music video by Christa
Christa Hoven performs Edvard Grieg - Wedding Day at Troldhaugen
https://youtu.be/S7um14M2QeU

Prayers of the people 

Lord's Prayer

Music by Christa
Christa Hoven performs Cantabile in B Minor, from Sonata, Wq.553 : Bach
https://youtu.be/FqwyVv4Orhs

PRAYER OF COMMENDATION 

Sending song:  Music by Christa
Christa Hoven performs Piano Sonata No. 13 In A Major, Op. 120, D. 664 - II. Andante : Schubert

https://youtu.be/CBEXNYJ0noA

November 2, 2025: All Saints Day: Restoring Humanity through Christ, Who Fills All In All

Our dead are never dead until we have forgotten them. 

George Elliott  

Sermon 

Ephesians 1:11–23 opens with a declaration of inheritance, which is not written in the language of property or privilege, but in the language of purpose. “In Christ we have obtained an inheritance so that we might live for the praise of God’s glory.” This isn’t about securing our place in heaven or claiming ownership over grace. This is about discovering that we already belong. We belong to one another and to God.

This passage invites us to imagine “inheritance” not as exclusion but as participation. God’s plan is "to gather up all things in Christ, things in heaven and things on earth.” The universe is being drawn together, not divided. God’s dream isn't a gated kingdom. It is a healed cosmos.

When Paul prays that the “eyes of your heart may be enlightened,” he reminds us that faith is not blind assent but, rather, a kind of seeing. Enlightened hearts see through systems of domination, nationalism, and fear. Enlightened hearts recognize the divine image in strangers, refugees, and those our culture often overlooks. Enlightened hearts see that God’s power, “immeasurable and great,” is not the power of conquest but the power of resurrection and of life rising again where death once ruled.

The power that raised Jesus from the dead and “seated him at God’s right hand” is the same power now animating the body of Christ here, as St. Teresa of Avila observed, in the church.  Our church cannot be confined to steeples or denominations. In a world torn by greed and violence, the church becomes every community that lives resurrection in defiance of despair. It is every act of hospitality that interrupts exclusion, every movement that lifts the lowly, every table where love breaks bread with justice.

When Paul describes Christ as “the head over all things for the church,” it is not to crown a monarch but to describe the heartbeat of a living body and “the fullness of him who fills all in all.” The life of God is pulsing through creation, still filling and still uniting. We are always called to live as if heaven and earth are already being reconciled in love.

This call is not naïve optimism. It is the daring conviction that love is the deepest law of the universe in the tension of history and the understanding of resurrection as a power constantly at work. Hope is not waiting for heaven to come; it is joining God in making heaven visible here.

One of our group members helps recipients navigate the SNAP program.We prayed that her work would be less painful. We found out today that Tina Kotek, the Governor of Oregon, is directing $5 million in state funds to support the state’s food-bank network and has declared a 60-day food security emergency so that food assistance can be coordinated while federal Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits are likely to be paused during the federal government shutdown   

Many local restaurants are also helping out. For example, Nan’s Taqueria (Happy Valley) has committed to feeding people affected by the SNAP suspension “no questions asked.” It is gratifying to have community solidarity and local efforts in place to provide for needs when the federal safety net is interrupted. 

This Sunday Creator celebrates All Saints' Day. In traditions around the world, from Samhain to Día de los Muertos, this is the time of year when the veil between the living and the dead is said to be at its thinnest. In ancient Celtic spirituality, it was believed that ancestors could walk among us during this liminal moment, offering guidance, warnings, blessings. In Christian practice, All Souls Day became a time to pray for those who have died. In many Indigenous cultures, this is a season of honoring the wisdom of the elders, the spirits of the land, and the continuity of life beyond death.

I remembered those Creator members who have passed recently Shirley Peterson, Scott Mattox and, most recently, Christa Hoven. who passed away on November 3rd, the day after her 88th birthday. I have a very vivid memory of her at a German-themed party after worship when we were celebrating Pastor Michelle's final service at Creator. The party was planned by congregation members, and the food and festivities were wonderful 

Christa played accordion and piano. The congregation sang German songs with her Tom with his Lederhosen and Bundhosen, and Katie in her Dirndl, danced in their traditional Tracht German costumes. People enjoyed the grilled bratwurst, sauerkraut, potato salad, root beer (of course!) , and a variety of available desserts. I also remember reading her book about her life in Germany during World War II with great curiosity and interest.

Perhaps this year, we feel that veil more tangibly than ever.  May the eyes of everyone's hearts be opened to the inheritance we share. In the end this passage makes me want to hear God's call and see through the power of Christ, who fills all in all.