Eclectic Christian

By Michael Bell

We had a major melt down of snow today. Unfortunately, one of the downspout runoffs for our house went missing. So the water melting off the roof poured directly on to the ground next to the foundation, and into our basement. No real damage to speak of, but a lot of time cleaning it up.

So, if you were wondering why your comment hadn’t been posted yet, or why I hadn’t responded…. Now you know.

Comments have now been posted, and I am busy responding to some of them.

by Joshua Hearne

There is a certain length that I like to keep my hair. The problem is that, even after all these years, I don’t know what that length is. Sure, I believe that there is a good chance that there is some unknown magical hair-length but I also believe that I will die without knowing what that special length is. I do know, however, that when my hair starts to curl up at the bottom that it’s time for a haircut.

So, a few days ago, my hair was getting curly at the bottom. I deduced, then, that it was time for a haircut. I had felt the curl coming on but I kept putting the haircut off because I had been very busy. I woke up one Wednesday morning and could stand it no longer. I had things to do but I penciled in a little time for a haircut. That day I had been working on a project for the church that I worked at so I was running around town picking up supplies for it. I knew that I needed to go to Kroger and I knew that there was a “Great Clips” by the Kroger. Suddenly, my haircut fit into the schedule.

I like Great Clips. It’s quick. They almost always know what they’re doing. Plus, they don’t make me feel bad when I don’t know what clipper-guard I usually use or how to describe how I like my hair to be cut. Doesn’t that seem unfair, though? A professional asking an amateur to tell them how to do their job? Isn’t this like a cardiologist asking you how you would use a balloon to clean out your arteries? I come to the haircut-place because I have no idea how to cut my hair or, as is often the case, what looks good. But this isn’t the point of my story.

So, I stumble through a poor explanation of how I want my hair cut — “Like this, only shorter…” — and settle in for a quick, fairly-priced, and much-needed haircut. We begin the classic dance of haircutter and haircuttee wherein we make small talk about random things. I like to play with this old routine by asking them questions. So often, the person in the chair answers all the questions but I find that sitting in a chair that can be raised, lowered, and spun around makes me reflective and inquisitive. I could use one for my office.

This time I find out that she has a son named Nathan. Having studied Religion and Philosophy in Undergrad and at Divinity school, I immediately run it through my religion/philosophy filter and determine that I cannot think of any famous philosophers with that name but it is a biblical name and a Hebrew name. I consider that it comes from “Nathaniel” which comes from the hebrew word נתנ (natan) and the hebrew word אל (el). That makes it mean, roughly, “given of God” or “gift of God.” As soon as I’ve deduced this, I ask her why she chose that name.

She replies, “I like the sound of it. It’s pretty…” I’m about to conclude that she hadn’t thought about the meaning of the name and reflect on how nobody considers the meaning of names anymore. But before I could descend into my own little world of spinny-chair-reflection, she continued, “… and it’s biblical. We like the meaning, too. It means ‘Gift of God.’ I think it’s appropriate because all children are gifts from God.” I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a great name” I responded, wondering why I naturally assumed that because her first comment wasn’t an academic one that she didn’t know what it meant. I guess I assumed that because she worked at Great Clips and because she had told me about her life that I concluded that she didn’t know anything about the meaning of names. It was astonishingly easy to immediately jump the divide of education and secure myself in an ivory tower.

I was more ashamed of my second thought, though. “Of course she knows it, she probably just got it out of a book of names” I thought. This one stung when I realized that I had tried to rationalize away my own insensitivity. Even if she did get the knowledge from a book, that doesn’t make a difference. She picked a beautiful name with a beautiful meaning. Even if she didn’t arrive at it through “proper linguistic analysis” or “thorough Hebrew exegesis,” she did well.

I further realized that I didn’t even know her name. I checked the mirror to read her nametag. It said “Anastasia.” I don’t know if it comes from the greek word αναστασις but that’s the word it makes me think of. What does that word mean? Resurrection. Raised to life. Recovery.

It turns out that there is yet room to change and be raised out of the death of this world and into the life of the Kingdom of God. There is even more room for me to leave the death of insincere words and thoughts in this world for the life of intentional and personal life with others. Even though I might fail to care at times, there is resurrection. I am being raised to life out of a pit of death and corruption.

I told you that the spinny chair makes me reflective.

by Joshua Hearne

This was originally posted on January 3 at my blog: Telling the Stories that Matter.

Many protestants look back upon the reformation gladly and view it as some type of ideological victory. With the passage of many years, those painful times have become a hallowed ground where countless people revel in independence and the power of self-determination. The Pope and the leaders of the Roman Catholic church were slandered and scandalized even beyond what they deserved and lines were drawn in the sand that could not easily be crossed over. Wounds were inflicted that would only be healed by love over time.Some even go so far as to celebrate days in the Church calendar specifically designed to remember the separation and disconnect. Yet, why should the Church celebrate the self-mutilation of the Body of Christ?

Many Roman Catholics look back upon the time and decry the protestant reformation as a time of vile heresy and overreaction. In an attempt to villify those who villified them, some insist that the exodus of protestants from the Roman Catholic church was a purifying and good thing that finally allowed for real and earnest reformation to begin. Martin Luther and the leaders of the reformation were slandered and scandalized even beyond what they deserved and lines were drawn in the sand that could not easily be crossed over. Wounds were inflicted that would only be healed by love over time. Some would celebrate the excommunication of protesting parties–after all, if one removes the protestants then surely those who remain all agree? Yet, why should the Church celebrate the self-mutilation of the Body of Christ?

In 1521, on January 3, Pope Leo X excommunicated Martin Luther in the papal bull Decet Romanum Pontificem. Specifically, it was only one excommunication and only barred one man–a priest of the Church–from the Eucharist because he had refused to fall in line with people he was protesting. Those in power insisted that theological and practical unity were of primary importance to the Church and those who protested should submit themselves to the guidance of the Church. Those who protested insisted that individual faith and commitment to discipleship were of primary importance to the Church and those in power should submit themselves to the guidance of the Church. Through much of it, there was hope to be held out that the Church might come together and show unity even though it was made up of people quick to take and give offense. January 3 was only one day but it was an important day–perhaps it was past the point of no return but hopefully, there is yet still hope for unity among people united by a common bond in the Lordship of Jesus Christ.

Deliver me, O God, and remind me of what is worth delivering about me.
Deliver me from my own crippling insight.

For you are a forgiving God, yet I am crushed under my own accusations.
Why do I remain in my own shadow?

Guide me in your pure and blameless way
Let forgiveness and communion bring me to my feet
to Your feet.

Then I will be free of my oppression
I will rest in the promise of forgiveness
And with my liberation
I will praise you

Knowing I am healed, why do I remain crippled?
Knowing I am alive, why do I continue to dig my own grave?
I must hope in God for God is hope, itself.
God is my forgiveness and my only hope.

~A variation on Psalm 43

Hi everyone, I realize that I haven’t posted for almost a week. I have been working on a number of things, so you will see some stuff up soon. I promise.

Mike Bell

by Joshua Hearne

“So he is called man, not only that through his body he may be apprehended by embodied creatures, whereas otherwise this would be impossible because of his incomprehensible nature; but also that by himself he may sanctify humanity, and be as it were a leaven to the whole lump; and by uniting to himself that which was condemned may release it from all condemnation, becoming for all men all things that we are, except sin—body, soul, mind, and all through which death reaches—and thus he became man, who is the combination of all these…”
~Gregory of Nazianzus

I love this idea of Jesus as the leaven for the whole lump of humanity.

So, God became man not just because it gives us a means to understand God and commune with him. Rather, it is so that God can join us in our suffering and sanctify us as if by proximity. He intermingles divinity with humanity.

It reminds me of Psalm 22.

My God, my God, why have you deserted me? Why are you so far away? Won’t you listen to my groans and come to my rescue?
I cry out day and night, but you don’t answer, and I can never rest.
Yet you are the holy God, ruling from your throne and praised by Israel.

But I am merely a worm, far less than human, and I am hated and rejected by people everywhere.
Everyone who sees me makes fun and sneers. They shake their heads,
and say, “Trust the LORD! If you are his favorite, let him protect you and keep you safe.”
You, LORD, brought me safely through birth, and you protected me when I was a baby at my mother’s breast.
From the day I was born, I have been in your care, and from the time of my birth, you have been my God.
Don’t stay far off when I am in trouble with no one to help me.
Enemies are all around like a herd of wild bulls. Powerful bulls from Bashan are everywhere.
My enemies are like lions roaring and attacking with jaws open wide.
I have no more strength than a few drops of water. All my bones are out of joint; my heart is like melted wax.
My strength has dried up like a broken clay pot, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. You, God, have left me to die in the dirt.
Brutal enemies attack me like a pack of dogs, tearing at my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones, and my enemies just stare and sneer at me.
They took my clothes and gambled for them.

~Portions of Psalm 22

This is the one that Jesus quoted on the cross. It’s significant to me because it was written by the psalmist many years prior to Jesus’ crucifixion. It’s a lament to God from the Psalmist. You can hear the notes of complaint and suffering in the voice of the psalmist. Interestingly enough, Jesus calls upon this suffering psalm to represent himself. He questions himself and all the suffering.

This is a beautiful picture. Not of a God who remains aloof and distant. It is a dramatic picture of a God who joins with us in our suffering and understands the pain and expresses our anguish to himself as we have expressed it to him in the past. God joins humanity in our suffering.

To once again quote Gregory of Nazianzus:

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? …But, as I said, he was in his own person representing us. For we were the forsaken and despised before, but now, by the sufferings of Him who could not suffer, we were taken up and saved.” ~Gregory of Nazianzus

Each month I select one of my own favorite stories from my own blog to post on here. This month I’ve selected St. Lucia.

The coins clattered to the stone and Lucia looked around as if she expected somebody to notice. In fact, many people noticed the sound of coins hitting the ground in this poor neighborhood but none of the people were her wealthy soon-to-be husband. She had no trouble giving away the money but knew it must be done in relative secrecy lest her betrothed find out that she was giving away her dowry. Her mother had not approved and had begged her to think of her father–her recently passed father–but could not convince her. At least, not since that night at Agatha’s tomb when she had been healed from her bloody problem. They had waited and prayed all night and Lucia’s mother had finally been healed but Lucia had been the recipient of a vision at the same moment that foretold her soon coming martyrdom. Mom had been happy to be healed and Lucia had not let her know what she had learned. Instead, she proposed that she be allowed to give away her dowry to the poor as an act of almsgiving. Of course, mom had resisted but Lucia won out. As she handed over the last of the coins, she breathed a sigh of relief–partly because she had maintained the secrecy and partly because she was glad to finally be rid of the bride money–after all, she had committed herself to a celibate life and had no desire to be a bride in this world.

Yet, as thing so often happen, her betrothed was quick to find out. He was a wealthy man and so he had much influence. Great influence in a city buys many eyes in various places and some of them had told him that they thought they had seen her in the streets giving away a large sum of money. He confronted her and asked to see the dowry set aside for him to gain when he finally married her. She knew she had been caught and so she admitted that she had given it away–knowing well that her martyrdom was likely to spring from this moment of opportunity. “If you don’t replace it, I will betray your secret–that you are a Christian–to the magistrate. Maybe then you’ll see some sense once you’ve given up these silly Christian fables.” he yelled. She nodded because she knew he would and because she had come to accept it.

She was arrested at her betrothed’s insistence and dragged before magistrate Paschasius. This was during the time of the Diocletian persecutions and being Christian was akin to high treason. She was ordered to make a sacrifice upon the Roman altars and she refused. Paschasius was not surprised by any means–it seemed that the Christians were only all too willing to refuse and die if the other option was denying their Faith. “If you do not,” said Paschasius, “then you’ll be killed. Offer sacrifice and live.” Paschasius wasn’t surprised but he was confused–what could be so valuable as to forfeit your life–it didn’t make any sense to him (it never does to the Empire).

“Here is my offering,” Lucia began, “I offer myself to God, let God do with His offering as it pleases Him.” Paschasius sat in shocked silence for a moment. Lucia’s betrothed was dumbstruck by what he might call her lunacy but others might call her courage. Paschasius finally asked her why she would not like to keep her life and be married. He pointed out many of the desirable traits of her betrothed. Lucia let them know that she had committed herself to celibacy and was not interested in marriage.

At this, Paschasius saw an opportunity to wring a denial out of her. “Deny your faith,” he said slickly, “or I’ll turn you over to the brothel to be raped and become a prostitute.” He gloated to himself and smiled what can only be called a smile of self-satisfaction. In this, he had revealed the Empire’s great lust to control and dominate even if by evil means. He fully expected her to give in but this time he truly was surprised.

Lucia siad: “No one’s body is polluted so as to endanger the soul if it has not pleased the mind. If you were to lift my hand to your idol and so make me offer against my will, I would still be guiltless in the sight of the true God, who judges according to the will and knows all things. If now, against my will, you cause me to be polluted, a twofold purity will be gloriously imputed to me. You cannot bend my will to your purpose; whatever you do to my body, that cannot happen to me.” Furious, Paschasius ordered her eyes gouged out and then to be martyred. The soldiers followed through and ended her life as a martyr.

by Joshua Hearne

Jumping quickly from the #6 Bus to catch the #1 bus was a regular occurence for me during the school year. The #6 picked me up near Duke’s campus and carried me away from idyllic Duke and through Downtown Durham to get to the primary city bus terminal. Once I got there, I had to rush to make sure I caught the #1 bus so that it could take me, through Northgate and Walltown, to my apartment. The city buses were a learning experience on many occasions but near the end of my Durham Bus tenure, I had a particularly interesting experience.

By some stroke of luck, the #6 had arrived at the terminal early and the #1 had not yet arrived. I had about 4-7 minutes to stand and wait. That was okay, though, because I was busy reading Adolf von Harnack’s What is Christianity? for my Church History course. It’s a dense read so I was focused pretty intensely on it. My attention, though, was raised by a homeless man who I had seen at the terminal before, who had told me his name was Robert, asking for handouts and/or help. Usually, the line was that he had a baby that needed diapers. Regardless of what you had to give, he was clear to say: “C’mon… diapers cost more than that…” Maybe Robert wasn’t scamming people but it did seem dubious at times. I couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t a ruse. If that makes me a bad person, then I imagine that I am not alone in my wickedness.

I looked over and saw a man, Ibrahim, that I had become familiar with while riding the #1 bus. His kufi and copy of the Koran–in Arabic–clearly identified his religion. On more than one occasion, I had set in front of or behind Ibrahim on the bus. Often times while engaged in studying either the New Testament in Greek or Old Testament in Hebrew. I’d imagine that we were quite the sight for the other riders. Side note: If you ever want to have a seat on the bus to yourself, read a book in a language with a different alphabet. On more than one occasion, Ibrahim and I would have the last free seats on the bus next to us. Ibrahim approached Robert and discretely gave a few folded bills to him and then began to walk away as Robert thanked him in his, typically, loud way. I was, apparently, not the only person who saw this, however. As Ibrahim was walking away, a large woman that I knew as Clara from a previous encounter [a story for another day in which I was berated for my reading selection] walked up and demanded, “How much did he give you?” Robert was wary of her as she was very loud and very forceful. Too much attention could be bad for him in Downtown Durham. There were gang members around who would be interested in how much money he had on him and there were police officers around who would not be pleased with panhandling.

She opened his hand, very impolitely I might add, and loudly asked: “15 dollars? That’s it?” She then proceeded to dig into her purse and produce three 10-dollar-bills and place them into his hand as if she were giving him his change at McDonalds. “I’m a christian…” she added loud enough for anybody to hear, “… and I want you to know that Jesus loves you…” and that christianity wins this alms-race. Her tone and the focus of her eyes clearly pointed out that her gift (twice that of Ibrahim) proved her right and more loving. I shook my head and mumbled to myself when I saw another woman approach.

I was familiar with her, too. She had long braided brown hair, wore a tattered skirt and smelled of patchouli. She wasn’t a “hippie” or a “new-ager.” In fact, conversation with her would demonstrate that she didn’t necessarily believe in specific ideas or thoughts but, rather, failed to believe in “established” or “orthodox” thoughts. She was a bit of a religious mutt. Some might call her a syncretist. I called her Eileen. I, also, called her a fun and interesting conversation. Today’s flavor seemed to be a particular shade of Wicca that involved obligatory references to the “Earth Mother.” She approached Robert, Clara, and Ibrahim and with some soft and hard to understand statements about life, earth, nature, and harmony she gave Robert another fifty dollars.

Robert was very happy. He was benefitting from this Alms Race and doing very well with it. He had received 95 dollars to be a plot of land over which people could fight. An argument had broken out between these Clara, Ibrahim, and Eileen in which Clara was picking fights, Ibrahim was disinterested, and Eileen was trying to calm down everybody but herself. Robert was basking in the chaos.

I was completely dumbfounded.

But from my right I see a small man I didn’t know and still don’t know walk up to Harry, one of the other homeless men at the terminal, and say “Blessings upon you, brother. Life has been hard but there is a God who cares for you and loves you. Though we suffer now, God wants to redeem us. Though we are alone and struggling, now, God offers peace and rest in Jesus Christ the suffering and struggling.” I smiled and tried to make sure that he didn’t know I had overheard. He handed Harry some money and continued, “Here’s something to help you out. If you need a meal, a place to stay, or anything I can help you with… Here’s my phone number and address. Don’t hesitate to call, brother.” Then, he slipped away behind the building and caught his bus. Harry looked around to see if anybody else had noticed. I smiled at him and he indicated confusion at what had just happened. I held up my book and tapped the covered which prominently displayed the title: “What is Christianity?” Then I pointed towards the bus where the man had boarded. I looked back over my shoulder at the Alms Race. Robert was gone. Clara was still yelling. Eileen was still struggling to remain calm. Ibrahim had gone back to his reading and ignored the others.

I put my book away and turned in my bible. I turned to Matthew 6. I smiled as I read verse 3: “But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing…”

by Joshua Hearne

It was 2:45 AM. I had been called to the Hospitality Room of the Intensive Care Unit. I was bleary eyed and I had mistakenly put on navy pants with my black jacket and white dress shirt. I had received the call at about 1:45 AM and had rushed to get dressed and get down to the hospital. My navy-black recognition skills aren’t good to begin with. Throw in the darkness of night and sleep-deprived eyes and it’s pretty much random. I had taken off my jacket and stashed it in the office. Dress pants and shirt would be good enough. So, after checking in with the family in the hospitality room, I ducked out to get a cup of coffee and check on the patient with the doctors and nurses down the hall. On my way back, I noticed that one of the cleaning-guys was waxing the floor.

I leaned against the wall next to a guy who was watching the floor-waxer.

“I wonder if they wax the floors in Orthopedics…” I remarked. He laughed at my lame joke. I’m still not sure if it was a pity laugh but I’m guessing it was. As a chaplain, I usually appreciated the pity laugh. After all, I was just trying to break the ice, usually. It doesn’t have to be funny, it just has to be conversation.

“You can wax the floor in such a way that it isn’t slippery” he said to me. Over the next 10 minutes, he proceeded to teach me about how to wax a floor correctly. I needed to give the family in the Hospitality Room time alone. Time alone is an important part of the grieving process and the process of preparation for death. It gives them time to grow together and talk openly.

“You seem to know something about floor waxing” I replied to the man.

“It’s what I do. I’m a janitor and floor waxer over at Barrasons. Look at the way he moves that waxer. He’s sliding it back and forth but he’s not getting the edges.” He remarked. He continued, “He’s not doing a very good job.”

“Not many people will notice around here.” I offered.

“But he should notice. I don’t see how he can do his job that way” he questioned. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I know that it’s only waxing floors but when something is your job, you should do it as best as you can. Right?”

I nodded numbly and felt as if either he had just said something important or he was getting ready to do so.

“It may not be important work but it is the work that you do. Why do anything if you’re just going to cut corners? Why live if you’re just looking for the easy way out?” He questioned.

I didn’t have an answer but I considered all the times I had felt unappreciated in my position as chaplain. I asked, “So who are you looking for around here?”

“I’m part of this group in this room” he stated. He indicated the Hospitality room. “I just can’t be in there right now. That’s my father that’s dying down there.”

Now, it felt like I needed to say something. “It’s okay to be scared of this. It’s okay to be upset about it. You have every right to feel the way you’re feeling. But for every blessing in our life, there is the fear of losing it. You cannot feel great without knowing that there may be a time when it’s no longer there. If your father dies tonight, it will be a sad thing. And you will, and should, grieve. But this grief is not something to avoid by standing in a hallway and refusing to feel it. Instead, I remind you that living life by cutting corners is hardly a way to live. Grief is a terrible and painful thing but it is part of our experience. It’s tough but you will not go through it alone. I have faith that God cares about our sufferings so much that even when it was God’s right and privilege to avoid pain, suffering, and death… God chose it. God didn’t cut the corners then and understands how you feel, tonight.”

He nodded. He cried a little. He gave me a hug. He went into the Hospitality Room.

His father died that night. The family grieved. They grieved well for a beloved father. They didn’t cut corners. They lived.

by Joshua Hearne

From Telling the Stories that Matter – November 3rd, 2008

Martin was the child of Spain’s domination and conquest of the Peruvian people. His father was a Spanish nobleman who denied any connection to young Martin. His mother was an black former slave who had been taken advantage of by Martin’s father. She raised Martin and his sister Juana in poverty and to the best of her meager abilities. Though there was often a lack of money and food in the family, there was never a lack of love among those who shared a roof with each other. Their poverty was influential and therefore Martin became a servant boy to the local group of Dominicans. He was of mixed race and they were hesitant to accept him (and it would be many years before they would accept him fully) but he steadily rose through their system and was eventually the almoner of the monastery. As almoner, it was his duty to disburse the alms and funds of the monastery to the local poor. When it became clear that Martin had a gift for hospitality, he was also put in charge of the infirmary. Martin didn’t try to do great things but instead focused on loving people. He brought a cup of water to the poor and to the sick with the intention of relieving a need but in the cup of water they often found healing. It wasn’t Martin’s intention to do great things but his loving spirit effected great changes. It was this same loving spirit that came out as the primary force in his life time and time again. His devotion to love is what made him saintly.

When he was young, he truly was a servant at the Dominican monastery. The priory that he was associated with underwent some considerable financial distress when he was still the servant of the monastery and not fully a member. The debts that they had accrued became an unmanageable burden for the brothers. As the brothers gathered to discuss the serious and precarious situation they were surrounded with, Martin intruded upon them and said, “I am only a poor mulatto, sell me. I am the property of the order, sell me please!” The brothers were shocked that he had come in and offered his freedom to purchase their own. In Martin they saw that the ethic of love and sacrifice was more primary than his desire to be free. They did not choose to accept Martin’s offering and found another way to avert their disaster but Martin’s words echoed in their heads for years to come as a testimony of the primacy of love over freedom.

Martin had a habit that wasn’t expressly forbidden but was not smiled upon by his fellow Dominicans. His love of the poor and the disenfranchised seemed to extend beyond that of his brothers. In fact, one evening he was stopped by a brother after he had been observed escorting a sick and dirty person into his own room and giving him rest and comfort in his own bed. As he entered again into the hallway to go and fetch some food and water, the brother said that he had gone too far. “That man will dirty whatever he touches–including your own bed.” He looked loving into the eyes of his brother and responded, “Compassion, my dear Brother, is preferable to cleanliness. Reflect that with a little soap I can easily clean my bed covers, but even with a torrent of tears I would never wash from my soul the stain that my harshness toward the unfortunate would create.” Without saying another word, the brother walked away with Martin’s words echoing in his ears, again. Martin had made it clear that, for him, love was more important than preference, cleanliness, or comfort. The brother walked away wishing he could say the same for himself.

In many of the places where Spain conquered, disease followed in their footsteps. Peru was no exception. Martin’s heart was broken for the sick and the needy in the streets. He understood that the monastery doors were locked for a rational reason: to protect those inside from the contagion that crept through the air to lay low the rich and the poor. Yet, the rationale was not enough for Martin who would unlock the doors so that he might take care of the sick. In doing so, he was being disobedient to his superiors even though he had vowed obedience. This was no little matter and eventually his superior approached him to say that this must stop. He was ordered to stop being disobedient. To this, he replied in a small and humble voice: “Forgive my error, and please instruct me, for I did not know that the precept of obedience took precedence over that of charity.” In doing so, he was not being passive-aggressive to his superior but, rather, articulating the implications of what his superior was teaching. He was willing to be obedient as long as it did not require him to subvert his calling to love. His superior withdrew the request to stop and insisted that love was, in fact, more important than obedience to superiors.

Martin died in Lima, Peru, in 1639. He was widely acclaimed as blessed and a healer of the sick and unfortunate. His life had proclaimed the power of love and in death he was united with the God that is Love.