Dear Friends,

This week I had the wonderful privilege of visiting Rome with a diverse group of people from across society. Together, we tried to connect with different communities in the city, to listen to their stories, and to link them to our own search for hope.

Among the communities we visited was the Community of Sant’Egidio, founded in 1968. Their hope is simple and profound: to pay attention to the periphery and to those who live on the margins. They gather people of all ages and backgrounds, drawn together by a shared commitment to the Gospel and a free, voluntary service to the poor and to peace. They speak of three reference points: prayer, the poor, and peace. These aren’t abstract ideals—they are lived realities in the life of the community. A school for refugees, a free hospital, and a vibrant evening prayer are just a few ways these pillars take flesh.

We met in a room that, for me, carried great significance. On October 4, 1992, in this very space, Joaquim Chissano, then president of Mozambique and secretary of FRELIMO, and Afonso Dhlakama, leader of RENAMO, signed a General Peace Agreement that brought an end to 16 years of civil war. A million people had died. Over four million were displaced. And yet, peace became possible in that room.

Hanging there is a striking painting of St. Francis wrestling with a wolf. It’s a familiar story and image, but in this version, the scene is set in a modern city. The legend tells of a wolf that terrorised the town of Gubbio - killing livestock, attacking residents, impossible to defeat or tame. St. Francis approached the beast, made the sign of the cross, and was attacked. He repeated the gesture, and the wolf became calm, laying its head in his hands. From that moment, Francis called him “brother wolf.”

Those who admire St. Francis in the Sant’Egidio community were quick to say that the story likely didn’t happen quite that way. It’s more likely that Francis encountered a violent, feared man—a bandit, a figure others…

Dear Friends,

Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?

That’s the question the men in white robes asked just after Jesus ascended. A rhetorical question, no doubt. Honestly, if I had witnessed something like that, I’d be staring straight up too, probably not blinking. It’s hard to blame the disciples for getting lost in the moment.

But the question still echoes: why are you looking up at heaven? What are you waiting for? Who are you expecting? It’s the old question, really. The Psalmist asked it too: “I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?”

Reading through the…..

Dear friends,

About two weeks ago, I had a rather sobering moment while exchanging my South African driver’s license for a Dutch one. Standing at the Gemeente desk, I handed over my documents, only to be met with a concerned look from the clerk. “This is not a recent photo,” he said, eyeing my passport pictures with quiet judgment. I assured him they were recent. How could they not be, given the endless photo-taking required for visa applications these past months? But he wasn’t convinced. Pointing to the solemn expression on my face in the picture, he said, “You are much older now than in this photo... even your hair was….

Dear friends,

This coming Sunday, we will end our worship with the beautiful hymn 710, “I have a dream, a man once said.” The words, of course, echo Martin Luther King Jr’s famous speech. Yet they speak powerfully into our worship context and resonate deeply with John’s vision in Revelation 21 (our 2nd reading for Sunday): 

“I have a dream,” a man once said,

“where all is perfect peace;

where men and women, black and white,

stand hand in hand, and all unite

in freedom and in love.”

But in this world of bitter strife

the dream can often fade;

reality seems dark as night,

we catch but glimpses of the light

Christ sheds on humankind….

Dear Friends,

I love the stories that emerge from our congregation and want to share them more widely. So, instead of our weekly minister’s letter, you’ll find a poem by Wendie Shaffer titled Mayday Resurrections. Going forward, we’ll feature biweekly contributions from members—art, photos, writing, poetry. Our creativity thrives in community. If you have something on your heart, please send it my way.

All the best, Marius

==============

Mayday resurrections

the air is crisp and cool

across the river, the low line of houses sleeps

soft wind ruffles the water

lifts small peaky triangles

it is still dark…..

Dear friends, 

In his beautiful book Dare We Speak About Hope, theologian and politician Allan Boesak speaks about the nature of Christian hope as “hope against hope” (Rom. 4:18). To make his point, he draws on the Khoikhoi conception of God as Tsui//Goab – the god who fought against evil and emerged limping. For Boesak, this image powerfully aligns with biblical depictions of God as one who suffers in solidarity. God is not, first and foremost, omnipotent and detached, but “limping beside [God’s] wounded children,” sharing in their pain. Hope, in this image, is not about denial of pain, but about divine solidarity. Our God, says Boesak, is the “God with the wounded knee.” We can relate this to the story of Jacob wrestling with God at the Jabbok (Gen. 32). This same God later shows Thomas his wounds and prepares breakfast for the disciples on the beach after the resurrection.

Hope emerges from places of woundedness. In fact….

Dear Friends,

I love the stories that emerge from our congregation and want to share them more widely. So, instead of our weekly minister’s letter, you’ll find a reflection by Giles Francis from their time in South Africa. Going forward, we’ll feature biweekly contributions from members—art, photos, writing, poetry. Our creativity thrives in community. If you have something on your heart, please send it my way.

All the best, Marius….

Dear friends,

“Look, O Lord, at my affliction,  

for the enemy has triumphed!  

All her people groan  

as they search for bread;  

they trade their treasures for food  

to revive their lives.  

Look, O Lord, and see  

how worthless I have become.”  

These are the lamenting words of the prophet Jeremiah, often called “the weeping prophet,” after the destruction of Jerusalem and the exile of his people by Babylon around 597 BC.

This passage is perhaps best known through Rembrandt’s visual depiction of it. In 1630, Rembrandt completed his painting Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem when he was only 24 years old. What makes this painting so striking is Jeremiah’s face as he mourns for his city. Last year, this painting was featured in the Turning Heads exhibition in Antwerp, which focused specifically on tronies – an art genre dedicated to single anonymous heads (the word “tronie” is an old Dutch term for “face”). This seemed unusual because Rembrandt’s painting is neither anonymous nor simply a facial portrait; it features a full-body image, and Jeremiah’s slumped posture communicates as much as his expression.

Nevertheless, the museum displayed it next to a true tronie by Rembrandt. When viewed together, we discover that the anonymous figure shares the same face as Jeremiah. Apparently, the same model was used for both.

I appreciate this idea because…

Dear friends,

I’m currently reading the dystopian novel Prophet Song by Paul Lynch. It depicts a near future in which the far-right National Alliance Party seizes control of the Republic of Ireland, implementing emergency powers that suspend the Irish constitution. This gives the Garda Síochána extensive authority and establishes a new secret police force, the Garda National Services Bureau (GNSB).

The novel follows Eilish Stack, who becomes aware of her husband’s vaguely anticipated but unimaginable arrest without charge after a trade union protest. When she first receives the news of his arrest and disappearance, she fears what she might have to tell her children, who are expectantly awaiting their father’s return. A poignant moment in the story illustrates her turmoil: 

“She keys the ignition, afraid now for what lies must follow, the lies growing further out her mouth. She sees how a single lie told to a child is an outrage; there can be no untelling it. Once the lie is known, it will remain outgrown from the mouth like some dead-tonguing poisonous flower.”

Isn’t that a vivid image? The words we speak, the lies we tell, and the hurt we cause can grow from our mouths like poisonous weeds, difficult to uproot once established. Eilish finds herself ensnared in a web of lies, not due to any fault of her own, but the potential for this web to take root in her soul and spread further is concerning. It’s a forest of poisonous flowers….