To the marriage of heaven and earth, all are invited: and the invitations never stop coming. Like the letters from Hogwarts to Harry, the deckle edge cards are flowing through the letterbox, pouring down the chimney, pattering against the window and sliding under the door. We find the invitations tucked into our hunger for a bigger story, our yearning to belong, our thirst for healing; there’s one in the hand of every person who asks for a cup of cold water ... (PS: There's no fiery hell.)
A few years ago, I went to the Southwest Roadshow. There, LGBTIQA+ folk, allies and agencies listened to and learned from one another about the needs, resources and gaps in the region. I was there as an observer, at the invitation of friends. But to my surprise, one of those friends then introduced me to the gathering and told everyone about Sanctuary.
I was feeling despondent so I went for a walk when I came across a flock of red-browed finches. They were darting back and forth across the path, cheeping merrily at each other. And they said to me, ‘Learn from us! Look how happy we are in our little flock, flitting between sun and shade.’ And I said, ‘But where is my little flock? I don’t know anymore. And I seem to be stuck in the shadows.’ Read here or listen here.
My mother loved beautiful clothes. She wore designer silk dresses and an embroidered purple velvet kaftan; she tripped around in Spanish platform sandals. But perhaps her most precious garment was a simple blue bomber jacket, given to her by some Cambodian widows ... Not your usual Mothers Day sermon, perhaps (surprise surprise) - tonight, from Sanctuary. Read here or listen here.
